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The  Best  of  a  Bad  Job 


THE        WORKS        OF 

NORMAN     DUNCAN 


The  Best  of  a  Bad  Job 

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/» -.   .. 


I  LL   MAKE    THE    BEST    OF   A    BAD   JOb/    THINKS    HE. 
'i'lL  CRAWL.'  " 

(page  41) 


The  Best  of  a  Bad  Job 

A  Hearty  Tale 
of     the     Sea 


By 

NORMAN  DUNCAN 

Author  of  "Doctor  Luke  of  the  Labrador,** 
"The  Measure  of  a  Man,**  etc.,  etc. 


New    York         Chicago         Toronto 

Fleming    H.     Revell    Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


Copyright,   1912,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  125  North  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto:  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:      100    Princes    Street 


To 

JOSIAH  WINDSOR  MANUEL 

aboard  the  ''Fog-Free  Zone''  in 

this  fall  weather 


912729 


Contents 


I. 

RiCKiTY  Tickle  . 

•        •        ■ 

II 

11. 

Cast  Away 

• 

IS 

III. 

Every  Man  For  Himself  . 

24 

IV. 

The  Onslaught 

■        •        t 

>      31 

V. 

Drawn  Blinds   . 

•                         •                         4 

.      40 

VI. 

A  Gale  o'  Wind 

•                         • 

.      45 

VII. 

The  Coward 

•                          • 

.      52 

VIII. 

Jack  the  Giant-Killer      . 

►      57 

IX. 

A  Lee  Shore 

•                         • 

.      64 

X. 

To  Sea 

. 

►      73 

XI. 

The  Way  to  Soap-an'- Water 

.      76 

XII. 

"  Crack  On  ! "     . 

.      82 

XIII 

Wings  o'  the  Wind 

.      88 

XIV. 

Misfit 

.      95 

XV. 

Weighing  Anchor 

.      99 

XVI. 

Far  Places 

.     106 

XVII. 

A  Bit  of  a  Cruise 

, 

.     113 

XVIII. 

New  Courses 

.     123 

XIX. 

Harsh  Fortune 

.     129 

XX. 

The  Conch  Horn 

.     136 

XXI. 

Good  Servants  . 
7 

.     143 

CONTENTS 


XXII. 

Past  His  Labour     . 

. 

147 

XXIII. 

The  Miracle  . 

. 

153 

XXIV. 

The  Crew  of  the  Seventh  Son 

157 

XXV. 

Decks  Awash  . 

, 

168 

XXVI. 

"  All  Blind  But  the 

Blind  "  . 

176 

XXVII. 

"  Lives  o'  Men  " 

,        , 

180 

XXVIII. 

Chapter  Twelve     . 

,        , 

186 

XXIX. 

The  Best  of  the  Job 

•        • 

194 

XXX. 

A  White  Rose 

•        • 

199 

Illustrations 


"  ril  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job,"  thinks  he. 

"  I'll  crawl "       .         .         .         .         Frontispiece 

"  The   Dollar  for  Dollar  was  doin*  well  enough  "       84 

'*  The  mystery  of  ol'  Tom  Tulk,  with  his  eyes 

bandaged,  blowin*  on  a  conch  horn  "    .  ,139 

"  What's  a  deck-load  o'  fish  t'  the  lives  o'  men  ?  "     181 


I 

EICKITY  TICKLE 

IT  was  beginning  to  blow  when  the  trader 
Quick  as  Winh  dropped  anchor  in  the  lee 
of  Blow-Me  of  Rickity  Tickle.  Agile  little 
gusts  were  already  tumbling  over  the  hills  to 
ruffle  the  soggy  calm  of  harbour  ;  and  overhead 
— between  the  cozy  shelter  of  the  tickle  and 
the  dreary  gray  of  day — shreds  of  white  mist 
were  streaming  with  ominous  haste  towards  the 
dry  inland  wastes.  The  tint  and  feel  of  the 
restless  gray  world  portended  storm :  so  Skip- 
per Jim  hung  the  Quick  as  Wink  down  for  the 
night ;  and  while  the  gale  was  viciously  trying 
to  strip  the  seaward  hills  of  the  last  branches 
of  the  verdure  that  still  remained  to  grace  them 
we  foregathered  with  the  trader  of  these  new 
days  in  his  shop  on  the  rocks  by  Squid  Cove — 
old  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  of  other  times  being 
then  long  dead — where  Tumm  of  the  Quick  as 
Wink  began  the  tale  of  the  man  who  had  made 

the  best  of  a  bad  job. 

II 


12        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"Pack  o'  lies !  "  ,tb«  cook  scoffed,  when  Tumm 
had  done  with  the  tale  for  good  and  all. 

'*()h^  well,  cook,''  Tumm  retorted,  grimly, 
"  you're  loath  t'  credit  the  tale  because  it  shames 
you !  '* 

Surely  not  a  fair  test  of  the  quality  of  a 
man!  .  .  .  And  yet — perhaps  so.  .  .  . 
A  singular  tale,  truly — a  shocking  humiliation 
of  the  achievements  of  most  men  !  But  it  was 
a  true  enough  tale  that  Tumm  began  that  wild 
night  at  Eickity  Tickle  and  went  on  with  in 
other  harbours  of  the  coast.  And  when  you 
have  read  the  tale  through  to  the  end  you  may 
discover  for  yourself  whether  or  not  it  shames 
the  man  that  you  are.     .    .    . 

There  is  a  devil-may-care  scattering  of  black 
reefs  off  the  narrows  to  the  shelter  of  the  great 
hills  of  Rickity  Tickle.  A  naughty  place  for 
the  mail-boat  and  strange  schooners  to  be  caught 
of  a  foggy  time  or  of  a  night  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon !  And  these  frothy  fangs — and  the  soapy 
seas  all  roundabout — should  be  borne  in  mind. 
If  the  reefs  are  forgotten  in  the  movement  of 
Tumm's  incredible  yarn  the  astounding  be- 
haviour of  old  Tom  Tulk  in  the  extraordinary 


RICKITY  TICKLE  13 

circumstances  hereafter  to  be  related  will  lose 
its  highest  significance.  Off  Eickity  Tickle, 
indeed,  lies  the  meanest  patch  of  outport  water 
known  to  those  harsh  parts.  It  is  all  sudsy 
with  broken  waves  in  northeasterly  gales :  in  the 
blowing  of  which  it  resembles  nothing  so  nearly, 
as  viewed  from  the  gray  smother  of  the  open, 
as  a  gigantic  basin  of  mightily  agitated  lather. 
It  should  be  made  plain  m.  the  beginning, 
moreover,  in  somewhat  anxious  furtherance  of 
Tumm's  singular  tale,  that  Eickity  Tickle  is  a 
fishing  outport  of  the  Newfoundland  north 
coast.  It  is  harbour  snug  enough,  to  be  sure, 
in  any  wind — a  placid  basin,  fashioned  by  Lost 
Island  and  a  beneficent  arm  of  the  Cape,  of 
whose  gray  rocks  the  trader's  shop  and  store- 
houses, and  a  scattering  of  squat  white  cottages, 
make  a  sufficient  and  acceptable  home  for  the 
lively  folk  of  the  place.  To  deal  with  deficiency 
— with  a  good  heart  to  make  the  best  of  short 
allowance  in  all  things — is  the  fate  and  teach- 
ing of  the  coast:  otherwise  Blind  Tom  Tulk 
would  surely  have  capitulated  to  his  astonishing 
disability  and  whimpered  his  way  to  the  grave 
where  his  brave  old  bones  were  stretched  in 
honour  to  rest  at  last. 


14        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Tumm,  "  'twas  short  al- 
lowance o'  sight  for  ol'  Tom  Tulk.    But " 

"  A  hearty  ol'  codger  !  "  Skipper  Jim  put  in. 

"  Wonderful  ol'  feller  t'  make  the  best  of  a 
bad  job,"  the  first-hand  contributed. 

"  Never  done  nothin'  else,"  said  the  skipper. 

"  Oh,  ay  1 "  Tumm  objected.  "  There  was  a 
time  when  ol'  Tom  didn't  make  the  best  of  a 
bad  job.  01'  Tom  was  jus'  like  the  rest  of  us. 
Life  had  t'  teach  un.  An'  the  best  lesson  life 
teached  un  was  the  hardest  t'  learn.  T'  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  job  upon  all  occasions  was  one 
o'  the  things  ol'  Tom  learned  late  in  life." 

"  He  learned  well,"  the  skipper  observed. 

"  Oh,  ol'  Tom  was  clever  enough ! " 

"  Who  teached  un,  Tumm  ?  " 

"Ali'l'kid." 

"'Twas  long  ago,  then,"  said  the  skipper. 
"  I  never  heard  tell  o'  that." 

"  Long  ago  ?  "  Tumm  mused.  "  Ay — 'twas 
long  ago."  He  laughed  softly.  "  'Twas  in  the 
days  o'  Jack  the  Giant-Killer." 

It  is  Tumm's  tale.    .    .    . 


n 

OAST  AWAY 

"fTT^OM  TULK  was  well  over  the  long 
I  hill  o'  life  when  he  got  cast  away  at 
the  ice,"  Tumm  began.  "  A  gray  oV 
codger  even  then!  Had  the  ol'  feller  been 
cronies  with  Trouble  after  that  there  would 
never  have  been  a  tale  o'  he  on  this  coast.  But 
Tom  Tulk  was  never  cronies  with  Trouble  but 
once ;  an'  I  'low  he  got  enough  of  it  that  time. 
Cronies  with  Trouble?  ISTot  he!  ^Me  cronies 
with  Trouble  ? '  says  Tom,  when  life  had  teached 
un  not  t'  be.  '  Not  much !  I've  too  much  self- 
respect.  You'll  never  cotch  me  in  low  com- 
pany. My  friends  is  Laughter  from  Get-Along- 
Somehow,'  says  he,  *  an'  my  best  bedfellow  is 
called  Grit.'  It  hadn't  always  been  true :  but 
'twas  true  enough  when  he  said  it.  An'  more- 
over ol'  Tom  Tulk  was  bound  and  determined 
that  he'd  leave  a  tale  on  the  coast  t'  prove 
that  'twas  true — a  tale  t'  be  told  in  the  fore- 
castles  o'  the  Labrador  craft  o'  windy  nights  in 
harbour. 

15 


i6       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  I've  no  fortune  t'  leave  nobody,'  says  he. 
*  I'll  leave  a  tale  for  all.  'Twill  do  well  enough 
t'  keep  me  in  remembrance  when  I'm  gone  from 
these  shores  for  good  an'  all.' 

"  '  What  kind  of  a  tale  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  What  kind  of  a  tale  ? '  says  he.  *  I'll  live 
an'  leave  a  tale  with  a  moral,  Tumm,  as  every 
good  man  should  do.' 

"  '  What's  the  use  ? '  says  I. 

"  ^  'Tis  better  than  riches,'  says  he ;  *  an'  it 
goes  further  an'  lasts  a  sight  longer.' 

"  An'  ol'  Tom  left  for  legacy  the  tale  that  I'll 
teU. 

"  'Twill  do  well  enough  t'  begin  the  queer 
tale  o'  Tom  Tulk  at  the  time  when  he  got  cast 
away  at  the  ice  an'  earned  the  name  o'  Blind 
Tom  Tulk.  What  happened  then  an'  thereafter 
shows  what  manner  o'  man  he  come  t'  be  when 
the  little  Giant-Killer's  teachin'  had  give  un  a 
compass  o'  Truth  t'  guide  his  course  in  the 
world.  A  tough  yarn,  too !  A  yarn  past  be- 
lief in  the  softer  places  t'  the  s'uth'ard  o'  these 
rocks !  An'  yet  'twas  not  the  big  adventure  o' 
Tom  Tulk's  life — not  the  tale  with  a  moral  that 
he  wanted  t'  live  with  a  blithe  heart  an'  leave 


CASTAWAY  17 

behinc?  as  the  legacy  of  his  life  for  the  good  o' 
the  coast  he  was  born  on.  That  come  later :  it 
come  at  the  end  o'  life,  when  Blind  Tom  Tulk's 
oF  bones  was  all  tired  out  with  goin'  about  in 
the  world  an'  his  spirit  was  achin'  for  flight  t' 
far-away  places.  Of  that  I'll  tell  in  due  course ; 
an'  I'll  have  you  bear  this  in  mind  for  the  time : 
that  what  Tom  Tulk  had  come  t'  be — an'  that 
what  he  done  on  the  floe  in  a  gale  an'  a  half — 
an'  that  what  he  said  in  his  bed  at  Kickity 
Tickle  when  they  had  stretched  un  there  t'  lie 
— was  all  due  t'  the  little  life  the  Giant-Killer 
had  lived  an' t'  the  quaint  little  death  he  died. 

" '  My  favourite  Bible  text,'  says  ol'  Tom 
Tulk,  when  the  Giant-Killer  had  slipped  away 
for  good  an'  all,  '  is  this :  "  A  little  kid  makes 
the  best  pilot." ' 

"  The  Blue  Streak  was  a  naughty  fore-an'-aft 
schooner  from  Bonavist'  Bay.  She  was  swilein' 
(sealing)  that  season  from  Rickity  Tickle,  with 
Tom  Tulk  master  for  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter,  the 
Rickity  Tickle  trader  o'  them  old  days.  We 
was  caught  in  a  change  o'  wind  by  the  inshore 
ice-pack  off  Little  Pony  o'  the  Horse  Islands. 
Hard  an'  fast,  ecod !  The  Blue  Streak  was 
clutched  an'  held.    An'  after  that  she  was  at 


i8       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

the  mercy  o'  the  ice.  Where  went  the  pack, 
there  went  the  schooner :  an'  this  until  the  wind 
should  choose  t'  blow  the  ice  far  out  t'  sea  an' 
scatter  it  broadcast.  An'  'twas  the  whim  o' 
the  wind  t'  switch  again.  It  come  on  t'  blow 
offshore  that  night  at  the  pitch  of  a  gale  an'  a 
half.  There  was  the  dust  o'  snow  in  the  gale, 
'Twas  a  brutal  dark  time.  An'  'twas  keen- 
edged  an'  frosty  with  nor'west  weather.  Still 
an'  all  we  rode  easy  in  our  minds.  'Twas  the 
weather  we  wished  for — a  big  wind,  blowin' 
offshore  as  if  it  meant  t'  continue.  The  ice- 
pack was  movin'  out  t'  the  open,  whipped  up, 
faster  an'  faster,  by  the  gale  behind.  'Twould 
presently  go  abroad — be  scattered  broadcast 
over  the  sea — an'  free  the  ol'  Blue  Streak  t'  go 
her  way. 

"  Afore  dawn — an'  a  slow  dawn  it  was,  when 
it  oome,  a  dawn  gray  an'  sullen,  held  back  be- 
yond its  time  by  a  weight  o'  cloud  in  the  east 
— jus'  afore  dawn  the  schooner  was  still  fast  in 
the  grip  o'  the  floe.  An'  dead  ahead,  in  the 
path  o'  the  wind  an'  ice,  lay  the  Blueblack 
Shoal.  No  need  t'  see  the  Blueblack  Shoal. 
Us  could  hear  it.  An'  'twas  doom  for  we — an' 
a  sorry  death  for  any  ship  t'  die !    The  Blue- 


CASTAWAY  19 

black  Eocks  are  never  free  o'  the  sea.  At  high 
tide,  with  the  swells  roUin'  in,  they  spout  like 
a  fountain ;  an'  at  low  water,  in  quiet  weather, 
they  boil  an'  bubble  like  a  pot  on  the  fire.  An' 
now,  with  the  ice  crunchin'  over  them,  'twas  a 
fearsome  sight  they  furnished  t'  strained  eyes 
in  the  last  dusk  o'  night.  There  was  no  stop- 
pin'  that  ice :  it  went  over  an'  on — pushed  by 
the  pack  behind  an'  splintered  t'  fragments  in 
the  passage.  But  from  time  t'  time  there 
would  come  a  jam  o'  great  pans ;  an'  the  pack 
would  pile  up,  pan  upon  pan,  heap  upon  heap, 
until  there  was  a  mountain  of  ice,  which  would 
all  at  once  break  an'  vanish  in  the  dusk  with 
the  crash  an'  rumble  of  an  earthquake.  Man, 
the  noise  of  it !  An'  the  power  of  it !  An'  the 
terror  of  it !  An'  withal  the  Blue  8i/reak  was 
bound  straight  into  the  thick  o'  that  horrible 
confusion.  A  slow  course :  she  was  at  ease,  as 
if  lyin'  in  harbour.  But  she  was  doomed. 
Doom  ?  Ay — doom  !  An'  doom  comin'  quick 
enough  an'  sure !  For  look  you  ! — with  the 
schooner  fast  in  the  floe  there  was  no  way  t' 
fend  off  wreck.  She  would  be  gone  t'  pulp- 
wood  an'  splinters  within  the  hour. 
" '  A  bad  job,'  says  ol'  Tom  Tulk. 


20        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  She'll  strike,'  says  the  first  hand. 

"  *  Ay,'  says  Tom.  '  Us'll  have  t'  make  the 
best  of  it.' 

" '  Every  man  for  himself,'  says  the  first 
hand. 

"  '  Oh,  no ! '  says  Tom.  *  [Not  yet.  There's 
no  tellin'  what  this  ice  will  do.  It  may  shift. 
Keep  the  lads  aboard  until  I  give  the  word  t' 
go  overside.' 

"  Well,  us  waited.  There  was  jus'  one  thing 
t'  do.  That  was  t'  get  over  the  side  o'  the 
schooner  an'  as  far  off  on  the  ice  as  need  be. 
There  wasn't  no  hurry.  An'  there  wasn't  no 
sense  in  makin'  too  much  haste.  'Plenty  o> 
time,  lads ! '  says  Tom.  'Twas  a  bad  job,  sure 
enough — no  doubt  about  that :  but  the  way  t' 
make  the  best  of  it  was  not  by  harbourin'  fear 
an'  complaint.  An'  so  us  waited  in  good  temper 
for  ol'  Tom  t'  sing  out  *  Every  man  for  himself ! ' 
An'  ol'  Tom  begun  t'  cluck  an'  whistle  jus'  as 
if  the  doomed  Blue  Streak  lay  in  harbour  with 
a  fair  wind  brewin'  for  the  cruise  she  was 
bound  on.  That  was  ol'  Tom's  way.  *My 
friends  is  Laughter  from  Get-Along-Somehow,' 
says  he ;  *  an'  my  best  bedfellow  is  called  Grit.' 


CASTAWAY  21 

An'  so  presently  the  lads  was  all  laughin'  a  bit 
an'  skylarkin'  over  the  dark  deck.  You'd 
never  think — now  believe  me — that  'twould 
not  be  long  afore  every  mother's  son  of  un 
would  be  cast  away  on  the  ice  an'  movin'  out 
t'  the  North  Atlantic  with  a  gale  an'  a  half  be- 
hind. 

" '  Where's  the  cook  ? '  says  Tom. 

"  *  Here  I  is,  sir.' 

"  '  Well,  well,  b'y,'  says  Tom,  '  leave  us  have 
a  cup  o'  tea.  Serve  all  hands,  lad,  an'  be  free 
with  it.' 

"  *  Tea ! '  says  the  cook. 

"  *  What  you  lookin'  at,  cook  ? ' 

" '  I'm  lookin'  at  the  Blueblack  Shoal,  sir.' 

" '  Too  dark  t'  see  much,'  says  Tom. 

" '  I  can  hear,  sir.' 

"  '  Oh,  well,  cook,'  says  Tom,  '  you  go  below 
an'  brew  that  tea.  Draw  it  strong.  An'  show 
lights  on  the  deck.  You  got  plenty  o'  time 
afore  your  galley  gets  mixed  up  with  the  rud- 
der in  the  ice  on  Blueblack.' 

"  The  cook  laughed. 

" '  Ah-ha ! '  says  Tom ;  '  that's  better.' 

"So  the  cook  went  below  an'  brewed  the 
tea.     An'  all  hands  made  a  party  of  it  by  the 


22        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

light  o*  the  lanterns.  An'  they  swigged  what 
they  wanted  an'  ate  what  they  wished.  When 
'twas  all  over  ol'  Tom  drawled :  *  Well,  lads,  I 
'low  'tis  every  man  for  himself.'  An'  then  one 
man  was  as  good  as  another — an'  'twas  every 
man  for  himself,  indeed,  an'  the  devil  take  the 
hindmost — an'  all  hands  took  what  grub  they 
could  carry  in  their  bags  an'  scrambled  over 
the  side  t'  the  ice.  'Twas  not  long  afore  the 
whole  crew  was  gathered  on  a  big  pan  t'  the 
east  o'  the  shoal — there  waitin'  in  dead  silence 
t'  see  the  ice  on  Blueblack  crunch  the  bones  o' 
the  ol'  Blue  Streak.  There  was  not  much  t' 
see:  'twas  snowin'  thick  by  this  time — thick 
as  a  blanket  o'  fog — an'  the  day  was  not  yet 
come,  an'  the  wind  was  colder  an'  wilder,  an' 
the  schooner  was  nothin'  but  a  thing  o'  mist 
an'  cobwebs  in  the  shadows  beyond.  But  yet 
the  crew  waited  there  t'  see  her  masts  topple 
an'  her  hull  crumple  up.  An'  nothin'  o'  the 
sort  come  t'  pass.  The  floe  shifted.  God 
knows  why !  There's  no  accountin'  for  the 
ways  of  an  ice-pack  under  the  wind.  'Twas 
presently  plain  that  the  Blue  Streak  would 
clear  the  shoal  an'  go  on  unharmed  with  the 
ice.    An'  then  there  was  a  mad  race  t'  get 


CASTAWAY  23 

aboard  afore  she  was  lost  from  sight  in  the 
snow  an'  night.  Panic  enough,  now  !  An'  no 
help  an'  no  mercy  !  The  pack  was  death :  the 
ship  was  life. 

"  'Twas  every  man  for  himself  an'  the  devil 
take  the  hindmost ! 

"  '  Come,  lad  ! '  yells  Tom.  '  We  got  t'  get 
aboard.' 

"  I  leaped  on  with  Tom. 

" '  Faster ! '  says  he.     '  Faster  I ' 

"  I  run  as  fast  as  I  could." 


I 


in 

EVEEY  MAN  FOE  HIMSELF 

"  T  EECK0:N'  that  or  Tom  Tulk  had  a 
warm  spot  in  his  heart  for  the  lad  that 
was  I.  An'  there  was  good  cause  for 
that.  I  was  not  yet  man  grown  by  more  years 
than  one.  'Twas  the  first  time  I  had  ever  been 
cast  away.  .  .  .  First  time !  Ecod !  Think 
o'  that  I  A  callow  child  was  I.  'Twas  the 
very  first  time  that  ever  I  heard  a  skipper  cry 
*  Every  man  for  himself  ! '  Ha,  ha !  An'  now 
I'm  an  old  man,  used  t'  these  here  coasts — fa- 
miliar friends  with  all  the  winds  an'  rocks  an' 
fogs  an'  ice  from  Twillingate  Long  Point  t' 
Cape  Chidley.  I've  took  my  thousand  chances : 
I've  been  lost  seven  times.  An'  I've  weathered 
more  troubles  o'  the  sea  than  I  can  remember 
or  could  count.  .  .  .  But  whatever  an'  all 
about  that,  ol'  Tom  Tulk  loved  me,  I  reckon, 
for  the  things  we'd  been  through  in  company. 
I  had  been  through  a  pother  o'  weather  an' 
grief  with  Tom  Tulk.  I  had  seed  Tom  Tulk 
with  his  backbone  gone  limp  with  fear  in  a 
24 


EVER  V  MAN  FOR  HIMSELF     25 

gale  o'  wind ;  an'  I  bad  stood  beside  un  wben 
bis  beart  broke — tbat  starry  nigbt,  witb  tbe 
wind  bound  down  nortb  an'  far  away  an'  a 
scud  o'  cloud  flyin'  low  over  tbe  little  cottage 
at  Neck-o'-Land  Bigbt,  from  wbicb  tbe  little 
Giant-Killer  put  out  t'  tbe  uncbarted  ^seas 
wbicb  all  souls  must  sail  in  tbe  end. 

"Tom  Tulk  kep'  close  alongside.  'God's 
sake ! '  says  be ;  *  make  baste,  lad ! ' 

"  *  I'm  doin'  my  best,  sir.' 

"  *  Ab,  but  come  faster ! ' 

"  *  Ay,  sir.' 

" '  Tbere'll  be  a  figbt,'  says  be. 

"There  was  no  broad  ligbt.  A  weigbt  o' 
cloud  still  lay  sluggisb  on  tbe  east'ard  sea.  An' 
tbere  was  a  swirl  o'  snow  in  tbe  world — like 
smoke  t'  breatbe  an'  see  tbrougb :  tbick  witb 
dusty  flakes  an'  bot  witb  frost.  'Twas  tbe  dusk 
afore  dawn.  Tbe  scbooner  was  vague  in  tbe 
gale — an'  seemed  in  tbe  gray  dark  t'  be  as  far 
off  as  a  first  landfall.  'Twas  rougb  goin' :  no 
level  course — but  a  ragged,  jagged  jumble  of 
ice.  A  man  must  leap  an'  scramble  an'  climb 
witb  bands  an'  feet.  Tbere  was  open  places, 
pools  o'  black  water :  pitfalls,  some  o'  tbese 
— drifted  over  witb  false  bridges  o'  soft  snow. 


26        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

I  seed  or  Bill  Letlive  o'  Tickle-My-Eibs  leap 
from  a  mound  an'  go  feet  first  like  a  harpoon 
into  the  water  beneath,  l^othin'  but  a  round 
hole  in  the  snow  t'  mark  his  passage  when 
I  passed  by.  .  .  .  Hero  ?  IN'o  I  I'm  no 
hero  at  any  time.  An'  'twas  every  man  for 
himself  at  that  moment.  An'  it  didn't  seem 
out  o'  the  way  or  peculiar  at  all  that  a  man 
should  lose  his  life.  Death  ?  Why,  good 
Lord! — the  sight  o'  death  isn't  nothin'  t' 
shock  a  man  at  a  time  like  that.  .  .  .  The 
Blue  Streak  was  now  in  the  lee  o'  the  Blue- 
black.  She  had  scraped  past.  An'  there  was  a 
jam  o'  pans  pilin'  up  on  the  rocks.  It  left  a  space 
o'  free  water  beyond.  The  schooner  was  slip- 
pin'  away  into  the  snow  an'  dark  o'  dawn.  The 
wind  was  behind,  a  gale  an'  a  half :  she  was 
goin'  fast. 

"Then  I  dropped  through  an'  went  under 
like  a  lump  o'  lead.  Man,  but  I  was  amazed ! 
An'  when  I  come  up,  shocked  an'  sputterin', 
there  was  ol'  Tom  Tulk  sprawled  on  the  ice 
with  his  hand  outstretched. 

"  '  Your  hand  ! '  says  he. 

"  *  Go  on,  sir ! '  says  I.     *  I'm  f  oredone  ! ' 

"  *  Your  hand,  ye  fool ! ' 


EVER  Y  MAN  FOR  HIMSELF     2  7 

"I  give  un  my  hand.  He  clutched  it — 
hauled  me  close— cotched  me  by  the  scruff  o' 
the  neck  an'  jerked  me  t'  the  ice.  We  run  on. 
An'  presently  we  come  close  t'  the  side  o'  the 
schooner.  There  was  a  crowd  o'  lads  fightin' 
there  like  beasts.  She  was  goin'  faster — always 
faster.  An'  'twas  jus'  as  Tom  Tulk  had  said. 
There  was  a  brutal  fight.  The  schooner  was 
light.  Small  fat  we  had  loaded.  She  floated 
high.  But  amidships  the  rail  was  within  reach 
from  the  ice.  Yery  good !  An'  'twould  all 
have  gone  well  had  the  vessel  been  jammed  as 
she  was  afore.  But  in  the  free  water  in  the  lee 
o'  Blueblack  she  floated  in  a  mush  o'  small  ice. 
Scarce  a  cake  of  it  would  bear  the  weight 
of  a  man.  A  man  must  leap  from  cake  t'  cake 
whilst  he  watched  his  chance  t'  cotch  the  rail 
— ^must  leap  here  an'  there  an'  forever  find  new 
foothold  lest  he  drop  through  an'  be  lost.  An' 
he  must  find  place  where  no  other  man  was. 
An'  he  must  fight  like  a  beast  for  his  life. 
Curses  ?  Foul  curses — from  deep  in  the  throat, 
like  the  growl  o'  brute  beasts !  An'  blows 
an'  kicks  !  An'  no  help — an'  no  compassion ! 
God  save  me  from  comin'  close  t'  the  like  o' 
that  in  my  life  again ! 


28        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"An'  all  this  time  the  vessel  was  movin' 
away.  An'  in  the  panic  it  seemed  that  she  was 
movin'  faster  an'  faster — that  in  a  moment  she'd 
leave  us  all  behind  t'  die  the  death  o'  hunger 
an'  cold  on  the  floe.  An'  all  this  time,  too,  the 
ice  was  pilin'  up  on  the  Blueblack  Eocks  t' 
win'ward — heapin'  up  an'  up,  until  it  looked 
like  a  white  mountain  in  the  mist.  An'  'twould 
presently  break  loose:  'twould  come  with  a 
rush  t'  overwhelm  them  that  was  left.  An'  the 
noise  of  it ! — a  rumble  an'  crash  an'  groan  an' 
shriek :  the  thunder  o'  hell  an'  the  screams  o' 
the  damned  !  I  edged  into  the  press  o'  men. 
They  cast  me  out.  I  fell  sprawlin'  an'  rolled  into 
the  water.  An'  jus'  as  I  clambered  back  on  a 
pan  I  seed  the  head  o'  young  Eli  Blunt  bob  up. 
An'  then  I  seed  two  pans  come  together — with 
young  Eli  Blunt's  head  between.  ...  It 
didn't  seem  nothin'  much  at  the  time.  'Twas 
a  thing  that  a  man  might  expect  t'  see.  'Twas 
not  shockin'  at  all.  But  many  a  night  since 
then,  though  years  have  gone  by,  I've  seed  in 
my  dreams,  lyin'  here  in  my  bunk  in  the  ol' 
Quick  as  Wink,  them  two  pans  come  slap  to- 
gether— with  poor  Eli's  head  cracked  like  a  nut 
between.     ...     I  tried  once  more  t'  worm 


EVERY  MAN  FOR  HIMSELF     29 

into  the  press.  I  climbed  on  the  back  of  a  man. 
'Twas  in  my  mind  t'  crawl  over  their  heads 
an'  gain  the  rail.  But  again  I  was  flung  back 
an'  down. 

"  Tom  Tulk  picked  me  up.  *  For'ard  ! '  says 
he. 

"  I  leaped  forward  in  the  wake  of  ol'  Tom. 
*Twas  dance  right  an'  left — lookin'  for  foothold. 
But  we  made  it.  An'  we  waited  there,  under 
the  bow,  on  a  solid  pan  of  ice,  until  the  drift  o' 
the  vessel  fetched  her  along. 

"  '  Now,  lad  ! '  says  Tom. 

" '  I'll  give  you  a  hand,  sir,'  says  I,  *  when 
I'm  aboard.' 

"  *  I've  these  madmen  t'  save.' 

"  *  Leave  un  be,'  says  I. 

"  *  Up  ! '  says  he. 

"  I  put  my  foot  in  his  locked  hands  an'  he 
fair  shot  me  over  the  rail.  When  I  got  t'  my 
feet — an'  when  I  leaned  over  the  rail  t'  stretch 
out  a  hand  t'  he— ol'  Tom  was  off  in  the  snow. 
I  could  reach  un  no  longer  :  I  could  hardly  see 
un  at  all.  But  I  could  hear  his  voice.  'Twas 
lifted  in  command  for  peace  an'  in  horrible 
malediction  t'  gain  his  end.  An'  after  every 
explosion  o'  that  profane  language  I  could  hear 


30        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

un  mutter  in  prayer,  ^  Oh,  God,  forgive  me  ! ' — 
for  he  was  a  man  not  give  t'  swearin'  in  quiet 
times.  .  .  .  An'  by  this  time  the  lads  was 
comin'  aboard  fast  from  the  ice.  There  was 
hands  stretched  over  the  rail  in  rescue.  .  .  . 
An'  the  jam  of  ice  on  the  Blueblack  Eocks  broke 
an'  come  after  us.  An'  the  Blue  Streak  was 
carried  off  in  the  rush.  ...  I  could  see  ol' 
Tom  Tulk  no  longer.  I  could  hear  his  voice 
no  more.  He  was  left  behind  an'  abandoned. 
There  was  a  mist  o'  snow  :  there  was  a  tumult. 
It  was  the  dark  afore  dawn.  There  was  neither 
sight  o'  human  form  in  the  swirlin'  dusk  t' 
win'ward  nor  cry  for  help  in  that  confusion. 
An'  when  the  dawn  did  come — when  the  cold 
light  broke  through — the  Blue  Streak  floated 
in  a  narrow  circle  o'  drivin'  snow  an'  was  once 
more  jammed  fast  in  the  floe." 


w 


IV 

THE  ONSLAUGHT 

"  "^  Ijf"  yELL,  now,  the  Blue  Streak  done 
well  enough.  She  went  on  with 
the  ice,  jammed  tight  an'  all  un- 
manageable. Skipper  Tom  was  cast  away  an' 
abandoned  t'  the  indifferent  fortunes  o'  life. 
An'  in  due  course,  when  the  wind  had  blowed 
the  field  broadcast,  the  Bhie  Streak  come  t' 
clear  water,  with  the  gale  fallen  to  a  smart 
breeze  o'  wind,  an'  there  gained  her  freedom. 
But  what  in  the  meantime  had  happened  t' 
Tom  Tulk  ? — poor  ol'  Tom  Tulk,  cast  away  an' 
bound  out  t'  the  far,  deep  open,  in  a  cloud  o' 
frosty  snow,  with  a  gale  an'  a  half  blowin'  cold 
an'  cruel  as  death  from  the  nor'west!  This 
happened :  Tom  Tulk  sot  down  on  a  big  pan 
of  ice  t'  ponder  his  mishap  an'  exercise  what 
hope  an'  wisdom  he  had.  An'  as  he  pondered 
an'  brooded,  with  his  back  t'  the  wind  an'  his 
head  on  his  breast,  it  come  to  un  that  this  was 
the  end  o'  life.  An'  he  was  discouraged — an' 
31 


32        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

ashamed.  An'  then  he  looked  up  t'  search  the 
low,  drab  swirl  o'  snow,  wishin'  for  the  sight 
o'  some  late  dawn-star,  winkin'  from  a  patch 
o'  still  sky.  But  'twas  broad  day,  now,  beyond 
the  clouds.  There  was  no  sky  showin' :  nor 
was  there  any  little  star  peepin'  out.  .  .  . 
Funny  little  beggars — them  wee  stars  !  They 
seems  t'  know  so  much  more  than  we.  An'  all 
our  ignorance  an'  all  our  sulks  jus'  stirs  their 
gentle  laughter.  A  wonderful  sense  o'  humour, 
ecod !  They  smiles  at  all  our  woes  an'  pokes 
fun  at  the  best  of  our  joys.  But  not  unkindly. 
Oh,  no !  They  winks  their  tender  little  messages 
t'  take  things  easy — t'  be  rid  o'  fear  an'  fret  an' 
t'  trust  the  eternal  time  they  dwells  in  an'  the 
spaces  without  end. 

"  '  Ah,  well ! '  thinks  Tom  Tulk.  '  I'll  hang 
on  t'  my  life  so  long  as  I'm  able.  I  isn't  finished 
with  life.  I  got  a  lot  more  t'  do  in  the  world. 
An'  I'll  do  it,  ecod,  or  I'll  know  the  reason 
why!' 

"  A  poor  lookout  for  more  labour  in  the  world 
o'  sea  an'  shore ! 

"  *  I'll  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job,  anyhow,' 
thinks  Tom,  whatever  an'  all.     '  A  man  can  do 


THE  ONSLAUGHT  33 

"It  may  be  well  enough  that  he  thought 
o'  the  Giant-Killer — hangin'  offshore,  waitin' 
somewhere.  I  reckon  he  did.  But  o'  that  he 
said  never  a  word  thereafter.  .  .  .  Some- 
how or  other  ol'  Tom  Tulk  was  not  give  very 
much  t'  talkin'  o'  the  little  Giant-Killer— after- 
wards.   .    .    . 

"An'  out  went  the  ice — drivin'  far  t'  sea 
under  the  wind.    An'  the  snow  was  a  cloud  o' 
frosty  dust  an'  the  wind  bit  fair  t'  the  mar- 
row.   An'  by  an'  by  the  field  shifted  an'  spread 
an'  patches  o'  ruffled  black  water  opened  up. 
An'  then  the  snow  thinned  an'  gray  light  fell 
down.    An'   then  ol'  Tom  Tulk,  hailed  from 
near  by,  looked  about,  with  his  eyes  poppin'  out, 
an'  beheld  Jerry  Tall,  a  widow's  son,  no  more 
than  a  lad  o'  fourteen,  squatted  on  an  ice-pan 
beyond,  near  buried  in  a  drift  o'  snow. 
" '  That  you.  Skipper  Tom  ?  ' 
"  *  How  come  you  there,  Jerry  ? ' 
"  *  I  was  kicked  in  the  forehead,  sir.' 
"  *  I  wisht  you  was  aboard,'  says  Tom.     *  'Tis 
no  place  for  a  lad — all  alone  out  here.' 
"  The  lad  begun  t'  whimper. 
" '  I  wouldn't  do  that,'  says  Tom. 


34       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"*I  can't  help  it,  sir,'  says  the  lad.  ^I'm 
woeful— an'  I'm  af eared.' 

" '- 1  wouldn't  be  afeared,  lad.  'Tis  not  like  a 
man — t'  be  afeared.' 

"  *  I'm  all  alone,  sir,'  the  lad  whimpered,  '  an' 
I  jus'  can't  help  it.' 

"'StiU  an'  all,'  says  Tom,  ^'d  not  be 
afeared.' 

"  *  If  I  wasn't  so  cold,  sir,'  says  the  lad,  *  I'd 
maybe  have  my  courage.' 

"  ^  Ay,  lad  ;  frost  bites  the  heart.' 

"  *  An'  if  I  wasn't  so  lonesome,  too  ! ' 

"  '  Yet  I'd  not  give  way  t'  my  fears.' 

"  *  I  isn't  able  t'  help  it,'  the  lad  sobbed,  *  cast 
away  an'  all  alone  out  here.' 

"  ^  Ah,  well ! '  says  Tom.  *  You  is  only  a  lad. 
I'll  go  over  t'  your  pan  for  comfort's  sake.' 

"  '  There's  open  water  aU  round  about.' 

"  *  I'm  an  ol'  codger,  used  t'  the  ice,'  says 
Tom,  '  an'  I'll  manage,  never  fear.  'Twill  be  a 
pleasant  thing  t'  have  company  out  here.' 

"'I  'low,'  says  the  lad,  *  that  I'll  say  my 
prayers.' 

"  *  'Twill  hearten  you  some,'  says  Tom. 

" '  I'll  say  un,  sir,  as  my  mother  teached  me 
t'  do.' 


THE  ONSLAUGHT  35 

"  '  Never  was  a  brave  man  yet,'  says  Tom, 
'that  didn't  say  the  prayers  his  mother  had 
teached  un  t'  say.  I'll  be  across  afore  you're 
through.' 

"  An'  with  that  Tom  Tulk  slipped  into  the 
water  an'  swam  t'  Jerry  Tali's  pan  an'  climbed 
aboard.  .  .  .  Somehow  or  other  ol'  Tom 
was  never  the  same  after  the  little  Giant-Killer 
had  slipped  his  cable  of  a  starry  night  an'  gone 
cruisin'  alone  t'  the  far  coasts  beyond  the  ken 
o'  the  world.  .  .  .  Somehow  or  other  ol' 
Tom  was  kind  t'  such  as  harboured  fear  an'  t' 
all  the  young — when  the  little  Giant-Killer  had 
teached  un  how  t'  lay  hands  on  his  own  soul  an' 
win  his  own  victory.  .  .  .  An'  now,  aboard  o' 
Jerry  Tail's  pan  of  ice,  he  stripped  t'  the  skin. 
An'  with  the  help  o'  Jerry  Tall  he  wrung  out 
his  clothes.  An'  Jerry  was  only  a  lad,  quick  in 
changes  o'  mood — an'  ol'  Tom  was  so  comical 
in  his  naked  state  in  the  wind — an'  ol'  Tom  was 
so  full  of  antics  an'  laughter — that  'twas  not 
long  afore  Jerry  Tall  was  laughin',  too.  An' 
by  the  time  that  ol'  Tom  was  clad  again,  an' 
by  the  time  he  was  leapin'  like  a  young  caribou 
t'  start  his  blood,  Jerry  Tall  was  red  with 
warmth  an'  jollity,  an'  so  heartened,  an'  so 


36       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

brave  t'  face  evil  fortune,  an'  so  willin'  t'  look 
upon  Ms  parlous  situation  as  the  high,  ad- 
venture of  our  coasts,  that  'twas  not  long 
afore  ol'  Tom  was  warm,  too,  an'  all  flushed 
with  contentment.  .  .  .  I  reckon  the  little 
Giant-Killer's  gospel  wasn't  preached  in  vain. 
.  ..  .  An'  it  may  be  that  the  little  feller, 
hangin'  offshore,  somewhere,  waitin'  with  the 
patience  o'  time,  was  glad  t'  see  Tom  Tulk  so 
cast  that  he  could  hearten  the  woeful.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know.     .    .    .    Who  can  tell  ?    .    .    . 

"  The  devil  an*  all  t'  pay,  presently !  The 
ice-field  went  far  abroad.  The  pan  floated  in 
a  wide  space  o'  water.  Night  fell  down.  The 
wind  come  with  the  cold  fingers  an'  clutch  o' 
death  from  the  nor'west.  It  come  on  t'  snow 
again.  An'  by  an'  by  the  sea,  clear  of  ice,  free 
t'  rage  as  it  would,  got  under  the  pan,  an'  flung 
it  about,  like  a  chip ;  an'  in  the  night  the  pan 
begun  t'  crumble — an'  fearsomely  t'  dwindle. 
.  .  .  An'  that  went  on  for  a  long  time.  .  .  . 
An'  God  only  knows  how  the  wind  an'  frost 
can  gnaw  a  man's  spirit  in  the  dark !  .  .  . 
An'  then  the  sea  come  higher  yet.  An'  little 
waves  begun  t'  wash  the  pan— t'  flow  aboard 


THE  ONSLAUGHT  37 

an' t'  wasli  back  an'  forth.  An'  by  an'  by  these 
little  waves  got  bigger.  The  wind-lop  was 
breakin':  an'  soon  thereafter  the  big  swells 
begun  t'  curl  an'  the  spume  t'  mix  with  the 
frosty  snow  in  the  wind.  .  .  .  After  mid- 
night the  seas  was  breakin'  over  the  pan  knee 
high.  Young  Jerry  Tall  was  numb  an'  hope- 
less. ]^or  could  ol'  Tom  Tulk  hearten  un  any 
more.  The  lad  was  cold  to  his  very  heart — an' 
cared  no  more  what  might  happen.  An'  then 
Tom  Tulk  held  him  on  the  pan  lest  he  be 
washed  away  an'  lost.  .  .  .  An'  that,  too, 
went  on  for  a  long  time.  But  all  the  while 
Tom  Tulk  kept  watch  for  the  loom  o'  spray  in 
the  dark — an'  for  the  onslaught  an'  crash  an' 
flood  an'  smother  o'  water  that  followed.  An' 
all  the  while  he  kep'  hold  o'  Jerry  Tall. 

"  *  You  le'  me  go ! '  says  Jerry. 

" '  I  can't,  lad.' 

"  *  You  le'  me  go,  I  say ! '  sobs  Jerry.  *  I'm 
tired  an'  cold,  I  tells  you  ! ' 

" '  I  canH  let  you  go,  lad  ! ' 

"  Then  a  big  sea  fell  down  that  smothered  un 
both.  Tom  Tulk  lost  hold  o'  the  lad.  But  he 
cotched  the  lad  again  on  the  edge  o'  the  pan. 
An'  then  he  lost  un  once  more — an'  went  off  into 


38       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

the  sea  with  un.  An'  he  looked  about  for  the 
boy.  But  Jerry  had  gone  down.  An'  then  ol' 
Tom  Tulk  felt  that  he  wanted  t'  follow  the  lad. 
He  was  old — an'  he  was  all  wore  out — an'  no- 
body was  waitin'  at  home  for  he — an'  somebody 
was  hangin'  offshore  in  expectation — an'  the 
love  o'  life  for  life's  sake  was  not  in  the  ol' 
man.  But  yet  he  had  a  tale  with  a  moral  t' 
live  an'  leave  behind  afore  he  died.  An'  so  he 
gathered  his  courage  an'  clambered  aboard  the 
pan. 

" '  I've  no  good  excuse  for  yieldin','  thinks  he. 
*  I'll  hang  on  so  long  as  I'm  able,  as  any  good 
man  would  do.' 

"  An'  up  come  the  sea — up  an'  up,  under  a 
gale  an'  a  half  o'  nor'west  wintry  weather. 
By  an'  by  the  seas  was  breakin'  breast  high 
over  the  pan.  They  come  out  o'  the  dark — a 
loom  o'  white  crest :  a  hiss  an'  a  swish,  an'  then 
a  blow  an'  a  crash  an'  a  tug.  Tom  Tulk  faced 
un  as  they  come.  He  had  small  leeway.  An' 
the  pan  was  slippery  to  his  feet.  But  he  was 
nimble  an'  strong ;  an'  there  was  by  chance  a 
little  ridge  on  the  pan,  which  he  found  with 
his  toes  when  he  was  upright,  an'  cotched  with 
his  fingers  when  he  was  knocked  down  an' 


THE  ONSLAUGHT  39 

scramblin'  in  the  wash  o'  spent  water.  .  .  . 
An'  that  went  on  for  a  long,  long  time.  .  .  . 
But  afore  dawn  the  seas  got  charged  with  the 
slush  o'  the  floe — fragments  of  ice,  made  when 
the  big  pans  had  ground  together  in  the  press. 
An'  these  fragments  sorely  hurt  ol'  Tom  Tulk. 
They  fell  upon  his  breast  an'  shoulders.  They 
struck  him  in  the  face.  They  give  weight  an' 
new  power  t'  the  seas.  They  knocked  un  down 
again  an'  again.  But  yet  the  ol'  feller  clung  t' 
the  life  that  was  in  him  an' t'  the  hope  that  he 
had.  Give  in?  Not  he!  Still  he  faced  the 
seas.  .  .  .  An'  that,  too,  went  on  for  a 
long,  long  time.  .  .  .  An'  when  the  dawn 
come,  at  last,  the  wind  switched  'round  t'  the 
s'uth'ard,  an'  the  snow  stopped,  an'  the  east 
turned  rosy,  an'  a  flood  o'  yellow  light  flamed 
over  the  sea  through  rosy  rents  in  the  sky.  An' 
afore  noon  o'  that  blue  day  the  sea  was  no 
worse  than  a  rollin'  waste  in  which  the  ice-pan 
floated  dry. 

"An'  then   ol'  Tom    Tulk    sot  down   an' 
rested.    .    .    ." 


DEAWN  BLINDS 


Cl  } 


TWAS  spring  weather.  March  is  the 
sealing  month.  An'  it  blows  hot 
an'  cold — the  winds  every  which 
way.  The  wind  went  t'  the  s'uth'ard  an'  swung 
'round  a  bit  t'  the  west  o'  south.  'Twas  a  fair 
an'  moderate  afternoon.  A  warm  little  breeze 
come  snoozin'  up  from  southerly  parts.  The 
ice-field  had  stopped  in  its  tracks ;  an'  now  the 
wind  herded  it  once  more  an'  begun  t'  drive  it 
back  on  the  coast.  It  had  been  footin'  it  for 
the  Funks  :  'twas  now  lazin'  back  towards  the 
Horse  Islands  an'  Eickity  Tickle.  Tom  Tulk 
was  somewhere  between  Mother  Burke  o'  Cape 
John  an'  the  last  rocks  o'  Newf'un'land  with 
nothin'  but  the  soggy  pulp  o'  hard  biscuit  in  his 
pocket.  Next  day  the  sun  was  hot  in  a  blue 
sky.  So,  too,  the  next.  An'  the  ice  was  a 
scorchin'  glare.  'Twas  close  packed  again,  by 
this  time :  'twas  a  vast,  white,  blindin'  waste. 
An'  man,  but  'tis  awful  on  the  ice-pack  of  a  hot 

spring    day !    Tom    Tulk    reckoned    his  eyes 
40 


DRA  WN  BLINDS  41 

wouldn't  last  overlong  in  that  white  light. 
But  thinks  he :  *  I'll  have  my  life  outlast  my 
eyes.'  So  he  made  for  the  nor' west  on  a  run. 
Thinks  he :  *  Rickity  Tickle  is  somewheres  in 
that  direction  an'  I'll  keep  movin'  so  long  as 
I'm  able.'  An'  he  kep'  on  with  good  heart  un- 
til his  two  eyes  was  fair  fried  in  his  head. 

"*My  eyes  is  pretty  well  scorched,'  thinks 
he.     *  I  isn't  got  no  sight  for  walkin'  no  more.' 

"  He  was  snow-blind. 

"  '  I'll  use  my  hands  t'  feel  with,'  thinks  he. 
'Eickity  Tickle  is  somewheres  over  there. 
I'll  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job,'  thinks  he. 
*  I'll  crawl.' 

"  By  this  time  the  Blue  Streak  had  made 
Eickity  Tickle,  her  flag  at  half-mast,  with  the 
news  that  Tom  Tulk  had  been  cast  away  an' 
lost  with  young  Jerry  Tall  an'  three  men  o'  the 
crew.  'Twas  grievous  news :  'twas  mourned 
over — but  the  tale  o'  Tom  Tulk  has  nothin'  t' 
do  with  that.  T'  be  sure,  when  the  wind 
changed,  an'  when  the  ice-field  come  back  t' 
the  coast,  our  folk  begun  t'  search  the  pack 
as  best  they  could  for  what  traces  o'  death  they 
could  find.    There  was  no  trace  o'  the  three  men 


42        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

o'  the  crew :  nor  was  there  sign  o'  young  Jerry 
Tall.  But  on  the  fifth  day  after  the  Blue 
Streak  had  scraped  the  Blueblack  Shoal  our 
folk  come  upon  oF  Tom  Tulk  crawlin'  over  the 
ice  like  a  blind  bear.  An'  when  they  had  car- 
ried that  bag  o'  bones  an'  bruised  an'  frost-bit 
flesh  t'  Tom  Tulk's  cottage  by  Blow-Me--an' 
when  they  had  got  Tom  Tulk  stowed  away 
in  his  bed  an'  fetched  back  to  his  six  senses — 
an'  when  Tom  had  told  his  tale — an'  when 
young  Jerry  Tail's  mother  had  gone  away 
comfortless — they  pitied  Tom  Tulk  an'  the 
blind  state  he  was  in.  But  Tom  Tulk  would 
have  none  o'  the  pity.  He  could  see  no  gloomy 
faces :  he  was  blind  an'  in  the  pain  o'  snow- 
blindness;  but  yet  he  could  feel  the  gloom 
about  his  bed.  An'  he  would  have  neither  pity 
nor  gloom  in  his  neighbourhood.  Not  he! 
'Twas  his  way  t'  scout  an'  cure  both.  An'  so 
he  begun  t'  chuckle. 

"  *  Stone  blind  when  I  fell,  lads,'  says  he. 

"  *  Ay,  Tom  ? ' 

" '  Snow  on  fire,'  says  he,  '  an'  my  eyes  siz- 
zlin'  in  their  sockets.' 

" '  Sure,  Tom !    ISTo  shame  in  that.' 

<*  *  Couldn't  see  the  tip  o'  me  own  nose.' 


DRA  WN  BLINDS  43 

"  *  Harsh  fortune,  Tom.' 

"  *  Awful  mess,'  says  he,  'had  me  nose  itched.' 

«*Ay,  Tom?' 

"  '  Couldn't  have  seed  t'  scratch  it  I '  says  he. 

"Tom  chuckled.  Nobody  else  laughed. 
'T  wasn't  good  for  the  ribs,  somehow,  t'  see 
blithe  ol'  Tom  Tulk  gone  snow-blind. 

"*Well,  well,  Skipper  Tom,'  says  Pinch-a- 
Penny  Peter,  the  trader,  *  I'm  afeared  'tis  last 
harbour,  b'y.' 

"'Whose?' says  Tom. 

" '  You'll  never  see  Mugford  no  more.' 

"  *  Is  you  alludin'  t'  me,  Peter  ? ' 

"'lis,  Tom.' 

"'Me  never  see  Mugford  no  more?'  says 
Tom.  '  I  don't  want  t'  see  Cape  Mugford  no 
more.  But  please  God  I'll  fish  by  Thumb-an'- 
Finger  beyond ! ' 

"  '  Anchor's  down,  b'y.' 

"'Isn't  I  got  ears?; 

"  '  Please  God  they'll  keep  on  hearin'  friendly 
gossip.' 

" '  Isn't  I  got  a  nose  ? ' 

'"Ay,  b'y,'  says  Peter;  'an'  please  God 
'twill  take  you  so  far  as  supper  many  an 
evenin'  t'  come.' 


44       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  Tom  Tulk  sot  up  in  his  bed.  *  If  I  can't  see 
my  way  through  life,  Skipper  Peter/  says  he — 

*  why,  damme,  I'll  smell  it ! ' 

"  *  Good  lad ! '  says  they. 

" '  I'll  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job,'  says  Tom. 

*  You  mark  me  !  ' 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  laughed.  An'  they 
says  that  Skipper  Tom  throwed  back  his  head 
an'  laughed  too.  Ecod,  but  the  ol'  feller  was 
wonderful  well  found  in  respect  t'  good  humour 
an'  satisfaction  !  There  he  lay,  for  the  time,  as 
blind  as  a  bat.  *  I'll  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
job,'  says  he.  *  You  mark  me  ! '  An'  he  done 
it." 

Tumm  laughed  a  little. 


YI 

A  GALE  O'  WIND 

NOW  the  gale  was  down  in  earnest — 
gusts  of  wind  falling  in  whirlpools 
over  the  cliff  and  troubling  the 
trader's  shop ;  and  the  rain  was  drumming  on 
the  roof  and  the  night  was  noisy  with  big  seas 
rumbling  like  far-away  thunder  on  the  rocks  at 
the  narrows  of  Eickity  Tickle.  We  were  cog- 
nizant of  all  this — and  warmly  glad  to  be  in 
harbour— in  the  silence  that  fell  when  Tumm's 
little  laugh  had  expired  in  a  doubtful  chuckle. 
I  wondered  how  it  had  come  about  that  old 
Tom  Tulk  could  make  a  jest  of  his  blindness. 
How  was  it  that  the  old  fellow  could  vow  with  a 
grin  that  he  would  "  smell ''  his  way  through  life 
if  he  could  not  "  see  "  it  ?  How  had  he  learned 
to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job?  Who  had 
taught  him  ?  Who  was  Jack  the  Giant-Killer  ? 
And  how  was  it  possible  for  the  blind  skipper 
of  a  Labradorman  to  live  and  leave  a  tale  with 
a  moral  for  the  more  fortunate  ? — a  tale  heroic 
45 


46        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

enough  to  be  told  in  the  forecastles  of  Labrador 
craft  to  this  day.  And  yet  all  this  had  come 
to  pass :  and  concerning  it  all  Tumm  told. 

Skipper  Jim  of  the  Quick  as  Wink  broke  in 
upon  the  muse  with  a  loud  guffaw. 

"  Wonderful  ol'  hand  t'  make  the  best  of  a 
bad  job ! "  he  roared.     "  That  was  Tom  Tulk ! " 

"  T'  the  end,"  Tumm  agreed. 

"  Beginnin'  t'  end  1 "  Skipper  Jim  declared. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Tumm.  "Not  so.  An' 
that's  the  tale  I'm  tellin'. 

"  It  hadn't  always  been  that  way  with  Tom 
Tulk  by  no  manner  o'  means,"  the  clerk  went 
on.  "  As  I've  said,  a  man  isn't  born  t'  humour 
an'  grit  like  that :  he  must  learn  it.  There 
was  a  time  when  Tom  Tulk  was  yellow  t' 
the  core  of  his  long  backbone.  I  was  aboard : 
I  seed  it  with  my  own  eyes — an'  a  show  o' 
cowardice  is  a  thing  no  man  can  forget.  But 
'twas  love  that  made  Tom  Tulk  what  he  was 
at  that  time :  an'  so  maybe  there's  some  excuse. 
Long  afore  ol'  Tom  got  cast  away  at  the  ice — 
long  ago  when  Tom  skippered  the  trader  Call 
Again  for  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  with  Jot-it- 
Down  Jones  for  clerk — we  was  one  day  lyin'  at 


A  GALE  a  WIND  47 

Poor  Luck  Harbour  for  shelter  in  a  sou'easterly 
wind.  'Twas  moderate  enough,  by  an'  by,  for 
a  skipper  o'  good  heart.  'Twas  the  tail  of  a 
gale.  There  was  little  whisps  o'  wind  still 
abroad  in  harbour;  but  the  sea  beyond  had 
turned  from  white  t'  gray  and  was  fallin'  flat 
an'  black  under  the  rain. 

"  Jot-it-Down  Jones  come  on  deck  t'  take  a 
squint  at  the  weather.  *  Ah-ha,  Tumm ! '  says 
he,  rubbin'  his  hands ;  *  the  wind's  flopped. 
For'ard  there,  Skipper  Tom,  oP  top ! '  he  sung 
out. 

"  Skipper  Tom  come  aft. 

"  ^  Leave  us  get  t'  sea  out  0'  this,'  says  Jot-it- 
Down  Jones.     *  Call  the  hands.' 

"  Tom  Tulk  pondered — an'  took  a  long  look 
at  the  sea  far  past  the  narrows — an'  sniffed 
the  weather — an'  pondered  a  bit  more — an' 
scratched  his  beard — an'  looked  Jot-it-Down 
Jones  in  the  eye  through  small  slits  in  his 
own. 

" '  Would  you  ? '  says  he. 

"  *  Would  I ! '  cries  Jot-it-Down.  *  Ay,  sure, 
lad!' 

"  '  Hm-m  ! '  says  the  skipper,  scratchin'  his 
beard.     *  In—this  wind  ? ' 


48       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  Sure,  why  not,  man  ? ' 

"  *  Blowin'  hard,'  says  Tom. 

" '  Oh,  Lord  ! '  Jot-it-Down  groaned.  '  Is 
you  came  to  a  pass  like  this,  Tom  Tulk  ?  Oh, 
Tom  Tulk— Tom  Tulk ! '  An'  he  turned  away 
from  the  skipper. 

"  *  Gale  o'  wind,'  says  Tom. 

"Jot-it-Down  flashed  about  on  Tom  Tulk. 
An'  the  little  runt's  face  was  all  scrunched  up 
with  worry  an'  disgust.  *  Hist ! '  says  he. 
'They'll  hear  you  for'ard  an  you  don't  look 
out.' 

"  *  Well,'  says  Tom,  '  I— I— I  got  the  lives  o' 
my  crew  on  my  conscience.' 

"  *  Will  you  put  t'  sea  ? ' 

"*Me?' 

" '  Ay,  you  !    Who  else  ? ' 

"  '  Too  much  wind,'  says  Tom. 

"01'  Pots-an'-Pans,  peelin'  potatoes  in  the 
galley  door  amidships,  laughed.  An'  Jot-it- 
Down  Jones  scuttled  back  in  a  rage.  *  What 
you  laughin'  at  ? '  says  he. 

"  '  Kothin','  says  the  cook. 

"  *  ISTothin',  ye  dunderhead  ! '  says  Jot-it- 
Down  Jones. 

" '  Jus'  nothin'.' 


A  GALE  a  WIND  49 

"  *  There's  on'y  one  thing  a  man  can  laugh  at 
aboard  this  here  schooner,'  says  Jot-it-Down 
Jones,  *  an'  that's  me.'' 

"*I  wasn't  laughin'  at  nothin','  says  the 
cook. 

" '  Then  they  got  a  place  in  the  madhouse 
for  you,''  says  Jot-it-Down  Jones.  '  Don't  you 
cackle  at  nothin'  no  more.  'Twill  bring  you  to 
a  straight-jacket  if  you  does.'  An'  he  come  aft 
in  a  rage  that  fair  choked  un.  '  Skipper  Tom,' 
says  he,  with  a  warm  little  smile,  such  as  folk 
gives  t'  little  kids,  *  they  isn't  nothin'  out  there 
at  sea  t'  hurt  the  Call  Again,  Take  my  word 
for  it,  man,  will  you  not  ?  She's  able  for  the 
wind  that  blows.  An*  I'm  fair  mad  with  haste 
t'  make  Eickity  Tickle  an'  get  back  t'  the  north 
coast  t'  collect  my  fish.  Won't  you  put  t'  sea  ? 
You  an'  me  is  been  friends  for  a  long,  long 
time.  Won't  you  put  t'  sea,  Skipper  Tom- 
jus'  t'  'blige  mef^ 

"  Skipper  Tom  pondered. 

"  *  God's  sake,'  says  Jot-it-Down  Jones,  *call 
the  crew ! ' 

"*Me?' 

"  *  Isn't  nobody  else  t'  do  it ! ' 

"  Skipper  Tom  looked  out  t'  sea — an'  squirmed. 


50        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

An'  I  'lowed  he'd  fair  ham  t'  put  out  t'  save 
hisself  the  misery  o'  bidin'  in. 

"'Won't  you,  Tom?' 

"*Well,  no,'  says  the  skipper  o'  the  Call 
Again.  *  I  'low  I  won't.  Too  much  wind  out 
there  t'  risk  it.' 

"  Jot-it-Down  Jones  dived  down  t'  the  cabin 
in  a  rage  he  could  master  no  longer.  An'  in 
disgust,  too;  an'  in  pity.  An'  Skipper  Tom 
flinched — an'  felt  a  curdle  o'  soul,  I've  no  doubt 
— but  tweaked  his  beard  in  a  very  wise  way, 
an'  sighed,  an'  went  for'ard,  with  his  head 
down.  An'  I'd  no  fancy  t'  see  that—^  big, 
kind  man  like  Tom  Tulk,  a  tender  heart  an'  a 
clean  soul,  timid  o'  the  wind  that  was  blowin' ! 
An'  I'd  no  fancy  t'  hear  un  sigh,  an' t'  mark 
his  meek  way,  an' t'  be  witness  of  his  shame, 
an' t'  hear  the  cook's  cackle,  an' t'  watch  Skip- 
per Tom  close  his  ears  t'  the  sound,  an' t'  know, 
as  then  I  knowed,  that  Skipper  Tom  was  a 
coward,  an'  that  he  knowed  he  was  a  coward, 
an'  that  he  knowed  that  we  knowed  he  was  a 
coward,  but  hoped,  all  the  time,  that  we  didn't 
know  that  he  knowed.  'Tis  a  pitiful  thing  t' 
see  a  big  man  swallow  his  shame— gulp  it  with- 
out a  wry  face — an'  go  off  in  meek  make-believe 


A  GALE  a  WIND  51 

o'  no  knowledge  that  his  soul's  read  like  a 
book. 

"  It  doesn't  sound  like  Tom  Tulk,  do  it  ?  Ah, 
well,  he  was  not  then  like  the  man  that  he 
used  t'  be  in  his  youth  an'  was  soon  t'  become 
again.  An'  you  bear  in  mind  what  Tom  Tulk 
used  t'  say  after  the  little  Giant-Killer  had 
teached  un  how  t'  live. 

" '  My  friends  is  Laughter  from  Get-Along- 
Somehow,'  says  he ;  '  an'  my  best  bedfellow  is 
called  Grit.' 

"  Maybe  then  you  won't  think  so  ill  o'  Tom 
Tulk." 


YII 

THE  COWARD 

"  y  0T-IT-D0W:N'  JONES  was  so  lean  an' 
I  so  small  that  he  was  hard  put  to  it  t' 
keep  his  feet  in  a  breeze  o'  wind.  He 
was  a  weazened  little  runt  of  a  man,  with 
spindle  shanks,  bowed  like  a  hoop,  as  though 
he'd  sot  on  a  cask  overmuch  in  his  youth.  His 
tongue  was  goin'  at  a  clatter,  an'  his  little  eyes 
was  twinklin',  when  trade  was  brisk ;  but  he 
was  ill  at  ease  an'  downcast  in  dull  times.  An' 
he  was  as  restless  as  a  jumpin'-jack,  good  season 
or  bad.  He  must  drive  north,  whatever  the 
wind,  or  run  south,  or  beat  t'  the  Labrador. 
'  More  fish  beyond ! '  says  he,  all  the  time ; 
*  more  fish  beyond ! '  He  was  fair  mad  t'  trade 
for  fish:  there  isn't  no  tellin'  t'  what  wild 
length  o'  risk  an'  hardship  an'  crime  he'd  go— 
an'  drive  the  crew  without  mercy — t'  get  a 
stack  o'  dry  cod  from  a  bay-noddie's  stage  t' 
the  hold  of  his  own  schooner.  But  he  had  such 
a  way  with  the  maids — an'  such  manners  with 
the  wives — an'  such  tricks  for  the  babies — an' 
52 


THE  COWARD  53 

such  a  store  o'  yarns  an'  laughter  an'  rum  for 
the  men — that  they  give  un  his  welcome  wher- 
ever he  went  an'  called  un  Jot-it-Down  Jones 
with  a  wink. 

"  As  for  me,  I  was  but  a  young  lad  in  them 
days — a  lad  o'  fourteen  or  thereabouts.  Jot-it- 
Down  Jones  boarded  in  my  father's  house  at 
Eickity  Tickle  when  he  was  in  harbour ;  an'  he 
had  me  aboard  the  Call  Again  because  I  had 
plagued  un  so  t'  take  me. 

"  In  the  cabin,  that  night,  when  Skipper  Tom 
had  gone  for'ard  t'  turn  in,  sheer  worry  got  the 
better  o'  poor  Jot-it-Down  Jones.  *I'm  fair 
losin'  my  wits  an'  seven  senses  along  o'  ol'  Tom 
Tulk,'  says  he,  *an'  God  knows  my  health's 
leakin'  like  a  basket  1  Tom  Tulk  turned  timid 
— an'  worse  this  season,  by  the  signs,  than 
ever  he  were  afore !  An'  here's  poor  Pinch-a- 
Penny  Peter's  fortune  scattered  from  Eickity 
Tickle  t'  Soap-an'-Water  an'  Mother  Burke — 
flour,  an'  salt,  an'  good  fat  pork,  an'  traps  an' 
twine.  An'  how  is  I  goin'  t'  get  fish  back  for 
them  supplies  ?  By  yelpin'  at  a  breeze  o'  wind 
— an'  reefin' — an'  lyin'  like  a  log  in  harbour  ? 
Breeze  o'  wind,  ecod !   What's  a  breeze  o'  wind 


54        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

for?  An'  I  can't  tell  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter 
an'  have  poor  Tom  Tulk  throwed  out  o'  the 
trade  t'  be  laughed  at  from  Twillingate  Long 
Point  t'  the  Cape  JSTorman  Light!  I  been 
sailin'  with  Tom  Talk  for  thirteen  year.  I've 
kno  wed  Tom  Tulk  all  my  life.  An'  I'm  friends 
with  Tom  Tulk.' 

"  An'  poor  little  Jot-it-Down  Jones  put  his 
face  in  his  hands  an'  begun  t'  whimper. 

"  '  Sure,'  says  I,  '  he'll  improve.' 

"  '  No  such  thing ! '  says  Jot-it-Down  Jones. 
*  I've  never  knowed  a  timid  skipper  t'  work  a 
cure.  An'  I've  seed  this  cursed  thing  come  on 
men  afore.' 

"  *  Slow  an'  sure,'  says  I. 

" '  Slow  enough ! '  says  Jot-it-Down  Jones. 
'  But  I'd  as  lief  sail  with  Davy  Jones  as  a  timid 
skipper.  Both  bound  for  the  Locker,  ecod ! 
What's  the  worth  of  a  timid  skipper  in  a  mess 
o'  weather  ?  An'  that's  what  will  happen  t' 
Tom  Tulk.  That  very  thing!  An'  I  don't 
want  t'  be  there  t'  see  it.  Tom  Tulk's  di  friend 
o'  mine ! ' 

"  *  Have  he  always  been  timid  ? ' 

" '  A  driver  in  his  youth  ! ' 

"  *  Have  he  ever  been  cast  away  ? '  says  I. 


THE  COWARD  55 

" '  'Tisn't  that,  Tumm.' 

" '  Then,'  says  I, '  what  is  it  ? ' 

"^"What  is  it?'  says  Jot-it-Down  Jones. 
<  Why,  Tom  Tulk's  got  a  lad  at  Neck-o'-Land 
Bight  t'  fend  for  ! ' 

"An'  that  was  the  trouble  with  ol'  Tom 
Tulk!  He  had  been  a  driver  o'  craft  from 
his  youth  t'  past  middle  age.  He  was  knowed 
for  a  hard  driver  wherever  he  sailed.  There 
was  no  sea  that  could  scare  un.  An'  he  held 
that  no  wind  that  blowed  could  wreck  a  well- 
managed  ISTewfoundland  schooner.  He  had  a 
fine  flash  o'  the  eye  in  a  gale  o'  wind,  they 
says ;  an'  he  had  a  little  twitch  o'  laughter  in 
tight  places,  an'  always  a  word  o'  fun  t'  com- 
fort the  timid  souls  aboard.  But  his  son  died 
over  at  ISTeck-o'-Land  Bight,  leavin'  an  orphaned 
gran'child  for  Tom  t'  fend  for ;  an'  'twas  then 
that  Tom  Tulk  begun  t'  change.  He  growed 
cautious.  *  I  can't  afford  t'  take  them  long 
chances  no  more,'  says  he,  *with  my  little 
gran'child  over  at  E'eck-o'-Land  Bight  t'  fend 
for.'  A  bit  more  cautious  every  season:  an' 
more  cautious  still — an'  yet  a  little  more  doubt- 
ful. 

"'Twas  all  so  slow  that  I  'low  poor  Tom 


56        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

Tulk  didn't  see  it  hisself.  I  'low  he  didn't 
know  that  caution  would  overcome  un  in  the 
end. 

"*  Isn't  no  sense  in  takin'  all  them  foolish 
risks,'  says  he.  *  What's  a  name  for  courage, 
anyhow  ?    What's  the  use  of  it  ? ' 

"  An'  nobody  warned  him  o'  what  everybody 
seed.  They  jus'  stood  by,  helpless,  an'  watched 
a  blithe  man  yield  t'  wisdom  an'  be  overcome. 
An'  Tom  Tulk  turned  by  slow  stages  through 
the  years  into  the  shamed  skipper  that  wouldn't 
put  t'  sea  in  a  moderate  spurt  o'  weather  t' 
save  his  pride  from  the  cackle  of  a  cook. 

"  *  I  got  my  little  lad  t'  fend  for,'  says  he. 

"An'  thinks  we,  that's  the  end  o'  Tom  Tulk  ! 
Which  shows  how  no  man  can  forecast  an- 
other's future.  Afore  Tom  Tulk  departed  he 
left  a  tale  with  more  morals  than  one." 


YIII 

JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLEE 

'*  ^  "^  TE  made  Eickity  Tickle  in  due 
^y%/  season;  an'  there  'twas  settled 
that  I  should  sail  another  voyage 
with  Jot-it-Down  Jones.  We  loaded  the  Call 
Again  with  merchandise  t'  barter  for  the  fish 
we  had  already  bargained  for.  They  was  our 
fish.  "We  had  dealt  out  supplies  t'  needy  folk 
on  the  promise  that  we  should  in  fair  trade  have 
the  fish  they  cotched.  You'll  mark  this  '\  the 
fish  we  had  dealt  for  was  ours.  Jot-it-Down 
Jones  swallowed  his  worry  an'  said  nothin'  t' 
Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  o'  the  skipper's  peculiar 
behaviour  at  Poor  Luck  Tickle ;  an'  Tom  Tulk 
was  in  a  blithesome  mood  when  the  Call  Again 
kicked  the  waters  o'  Eickity  Tickle  behind  her 
for  the  last  time  that  summer  an'  pointed  up 
for  Candlestick  Cove,  bound  thence  t'  Soap-an'- 
Water. 

"  *  Goin'  t'  have  my  lad  aboard,  this  cruise,' 
says  he.    *  I'll  pick  un  up  at  Candlestick  Cove. 
57 


58        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

He've  been  cravin'  harsh  sailin'  an'  a  sight  o' 
the  north  coast.  I  low  I'm  the  b'y  t'  give  un 
his  fill  o'^A(^j{/' 

"  '  Ay,  sure ! '  says  I.    '  He'll  enjoy  it.' 

"'A  chirky  lad,  my  young  gran'son,'  says 
he,  *  an'  bound  t'  see  strange  places,  come 
what  will.  I  'low  he'll  be  a  comfort  on  the 
cruise.' 

" '  Well,'  says  I,  *  maybe.' 

" '  You're  but  a  wee  lad  yourself,  Tumm,'  says 
Skipper  Tom,  *an'  I  hopes  you'll  be  good  t' 
my  little  feller.' 

«*Me?'saysL    ^ThatlwiU!' 

"  *  He's  a  lad  o'  parts  an'  spirit,  Tumm,'  says 
he.     *  You'll  take  a  fancy  to  un  right  away.' 

"  A  lad  o'  parts  an'  spirit  ?  'Twould  surely 
make  shame  an'  trouble  for  Skipper  Tom  t' 
have  the  lad  aboard  if  evil  weather  once 
cotched  us  in  sore  need  o'  gettin'  along ;  an'  I 
wished  in  my  heart  that  Skipper  Tom  had  let 
the  lad  bide  at  home — for  I  never  was  no  hand 
t'  look  upon  shame  an'  ride  easy.  A  chirky 
lad  ?  An'  bound  t'  see  strange  places  ?  A  lad 
o'  parts  an'  spirit  ?  A  lad  with  no  fear  o'  the 
sea?  A  great,  tow-headed,  tough-hearted 
youngster  o'  the  outports,  no  doubt !     An' 


JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER       59 

poor  Skipper  Tom !  'Twas  a  pity  t'  think  o' 
what  might  happen.  There'd  surely  be  shame 
for  us  all  in  a  pinch  o'  bad  weather.  An'  as 
luck  would  have  it  'twas  a  mornin'  o'  gray 
weather  when  us  put  into  Candlestick  Cove  t' 
pick  the  lad  up.  The  wind  was  comin'  down 
from  the  nor'east  with  naughty  intention. 
There  was  a  black-an'-white  sea  jumpin'  up; 
an'  there  was  a  drizzle  o'  rain,  too,  an'  no  com- 
fort in  the  glass. 

"  I  was  glad  enough  when  Jot-it-Down  Jones 
'lowed  t'  hang  the  Call  Again  down  overnight. 
But  'twas  less  the  weather  that  troubled  Jot-it- 
Down  Jones  than  the  sight  o'  the  Dollar  for 
Dollar  lyin'  snug  in  Candlestick  Cove  :  for  she 
was  a  cutthroat  cash-trader  from  the  west 
coast,  clerked  by  Long  Jim  Cook,  a  man  with- 
out conscience  in  respect  t'  the  fish.  An'  Jot- 
it-Down  Jones  jumped  when  he  seed  that  craft, 
an'  went  sheer  overboard  in  temper,  an'  cursed 
Jim  Cook  for  a  wrecker  o'  trade  an'  a  thievin' 
cut-price  an'  pirate,  gone  too  long  in  decent 
company,  an'  too  long  out  o'  jail ;  an'  then  he 
'lowed  that  he'd  pass  the  day  ashore  in  search 
o'  news,  with  a  bottle  t'  loosen  tongues,  while 
Skipper  Tom  made  over  the  neck  o'  land  t'  the 


6o       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

Bight,  with  what  haste  he  could  manage,  an' 
fetched  back  his  lad. 

"  Skipper  Tom  come  aboard  afore  noon,  with 
Jot-it-Down  Jones  still  ashore,  wieldin'  his  bot- 
tle in  pursuit  o'  the  news  o'  fish  an'  the  inten- 
tions o'  Xong  Jim  Cook.  I  beared  the  punt 
scrape  alongside,  an'  Skipper  Tom's  voice,  then, 
all  anxious  an'  gentle,  motherin'  his  lad  over 
the  rail,  in  a  way  t'  shame  a  lad  o'  spirit. 

"  *  Give  me  your  hand,  lad,'  says  the  skipper. 
'  Easy,  easy  !  You'll  manage.  There  !  An' 
now  you're  aboard  your  gran'father's  vessel. 
Is  you  all  wore  out  ? ' 

"  'Twas  no  lusty  youngster  he  had  fetched 
aboard  from  ISTeck-o'-Land  Bight.  'Twas  a 
wan  little  chap  with  a  withered  leg,  a  brown 
head  an'  big  brown  eyes.  An'  he  was  ailin' 
sorely :  he  was  white  an'  pinched  an'  all  tired 
out  with  comin'  over  the  road.  Ah,  well,  he 
was  jus'  a  doomed  little  mite,  used  t'  limpin' 
about,  an'  used  t'  the  care  of  his  elders. 

"  *  Your  lad.  Skipper  Tom  ? '  says  I. 

"  ^  Ay,'  says  he.  *  He' ve  not  very  good  health, 
Tumm,  but  the  oraise  will  do  un  good.  His 
mother's  dead,  an'  his  father's  dead,  an'  I  keeps 
un  with  strangers  at  Neck-o'-Land  Bight,  when 


JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER        6i 

I'm  afloat  in  the  summer.'  An'  then  off  went 
the  skipper  f or'ard,  leavin'  we  two  lads  t'gether. 

"  *  How  old  is  you  ? '  says  I. 

"  *  I'm  but  seven,'  says  he. 

"  *  As  for  me,'  says  I,  *  I'm  fourteen.  What's 
your  name  ? ' 

"*Tulk.' 

"  *  Ay,  but  your  first  name  ? ' 

" '  Jack.' 

"  *  After  Cape  John  ? '  says  I,  t'  tease  un. 

"  '  Oh,  no !    After  Jack  the  Giant-Killer.' 

" '  Jack-the-Giant-KiUer  Tulk ! '  says  I.  *  'Tis 
a  brave  name.' 

" '  My  gran'father  loves  brave  men.' 

"  *  Was  it  for  that  he  give  you  the  name  ? ' 

"*Ay;  t' live  up  to.' 

"  *  Is  you  doin'  it  ? ' 

"a  is.' 

"  *  You  got  a  wonderful  bad  cold,'  says  I. 

"  *  Oh,  that's  nothin','  says  he.  *  I  always  got 
a  cold.' 

"  <  I'm  glad  'tis  in  your  head,'  says  I,  *  an'  not 
in  Tuine? 

" '  'Tis  not  in  my  head,'  says  he.  ^  'Tis 
deeper  than  that.' 

«  '  How  deep  ? ' 


62        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  says  he.  *  I  s'pose  'tis 
down  in  the  regions  o'  my  stummick.' 

"  'Twas  blowin'  high  outside — a  nor'easter, 
too,  workin'  up  t'  the  pitch  of  a  gale,  with  three 
days  o'  spiteful  conduct  t'  run.  There  was  a 
white  sea  beyond  the  narrows,  with  a  gray, 
drivin'  sky  overhead,  an'  a  mist  o'  rain  in  the 
wind ;  an'  'twas  no  pleasant  sight,  believe  me, 
from  the  deck  o'  the  Call  Again — not  with  the 
white  horses  gallopin'  past  the  narrows.  But 
Tom  Tulk's  lad  stood  lookin'  at  it  with  a  grim 
little  grin — as  though  'twere  nothin'  more  than 
a  sight  t'  rouse  the  spirit  of  a  man  an'  make  un 
wish  for  conflict. 

"  '  I'd  like  t'  be  out  in  that !  '  says  he. 

" '  Well,'  says  I,  '  you'll  not  be.' 

"  *  Anyhow,'  says  he,  '  I  wisht  I  was.  I — I — 
I'd  like  it!  An'  my  gran'father  would  take 
me,  too.' 

"'So?' says  I. 

"  *  That  wouldn't  be  nothin' t'  A^  / ' 

"'Whotol'youso?' 

"  *  My  gran'father  tol'  me  so.  He^ve  no  fear 
o'  nothin'.  An'  he've  tol'  me — many  other 
things.' 


JACK  THE  GIANT-KILLER       63 

"  *  Oh,  sure !  Winter  nights  ashore.' 
"  'Tis  not  hard  for  me,  as  I  look  back,  t'  tell 
what  went  on  at  Neck-o'-Land  Bight  in  the 
winter  nights  when  Tom  Tulk  was  home  from 
the  sea.  Winter  nights  ashore  ?  Tales,  t'  be 
sure!  An'  tales  o'  crackin'  on  sail,  an'  lee 
shores,  an'  drivin',  an'  all  sail  set  an'  be  hanged 
t'  the  consequences,  an'  Tom  Tulk  at  the  wheel 
every  time !  Winter  nights  ashore  ?  The  wind 
outside,  an'  the  fire  roarin',  an'  Tom  Tulk  an' 
the  crippled  little  lad  drawed  close  t'  the 
kitchen  stove,  an'  the  lad  hungry  for  tales,  an' 
hunched  up  in  his  little  chair  with  his  eyes  pop- 
pin'  out  with  admiration,  an'  nobody  about  t' 
sneer  at  whatever  wild  yarn  of  his  own  courage 
Tom  Tulk  might  take  it  into  his  deluded  head 
t'  tell !  'Tis  easy  enough  t'  understand  that 
Tom  Tulk,  in  from  the  sneers  an'  cocked  glances 
o'  the  coast,  an'  the  cackle  o'  the  cook,  an'  the 
whimpers  o'  Jot-it-Down  Jones,  craved  admira- 
tion, an'  would  yarn  without  fear  an' t'  good 
purpose,  sea  an'  wind  far  off  in  the  months  t' 
come. 

"  But  there's  no  profit  in  a  lie — whether  'tis 
told  with  good  intention  or  bad." 


IX 

A  LEE  SHOEE 

«  T^EESEISTTLY  Skipper  Tom  come  aft 
r^  with  an  outfit  for  wet  weather.  There 
-*"  was  a  pair  o'  wee  sea-boots  an'  a  yellow 
oilskin  jacket  an'  a  sou'wester  t'  match.  The 
schooner  lay  at  anchor  in  flat  water.  'No  more 
than  a  mist  o'  rain  was  fallin' :  'twould  never 
get  through  the  lad's  warm  reefer  t'  wet  his 
skin.  But  the  lad  must  have  his  oilskins  on  or 
go  discontent.  He  pulled  on  his  sea-boots,  he 
slipped  into  his  oilskin  jacket,  he  clapped  his 
sou'wester  hard  down  on  his  curls ;  an'  then  he 
looked  fore  an'  aft  an'  aloft  an'  out  t'  sea  with 
his  big  brown  eyes  flashin'  like  a  mail-boat 
captain's  in  foul  weather.  His  jacket  hid  the 
small  crook  in  his  back ;  an'  he  so  cleverly 
favoured  his  withered  leg,  by  usin'  the  tip  of 
his  toe,  that  it  looked  as  long  an'  as  lusty  as  his 
sound  one.  A  fine  figure  of  a  lad ! — a  mere 
mite  of  a  boy,  ill-fashioned,  tender,  ailin'  sorely 
under  his  courage :  but  yet  a  lad  with  fine  brave 
64 


A  LEE  SHORE  '  65 

eyes,  an'  with  the  love  o'  the  sea  in  his  heart, 
an'  with  a  soul  that  no  bugbear  o'  fear  could 
daunt,  an'  with  a  body  so  managed  that  'twas 
as  straight  an'  as  sound  as  new  timber  so  far  as 
a  man  could  tell.  He  looked  aloft  again :  he 
searched  out  the  weather  signs  an'  felt  the  wind 
an'  watched  the  white  horses  run  past  the  tickle 
t'  Candlestick  Cove.  An'  thereafter — whilst 
his  white  little  face  was  thin  an'  grim  an'  keen 
under  his  sou'wester — an'  whilst  the  lights  o' 
delight  shone  in  his  big  brown  eyes — an'  whilst 
big  sea-talk  fell  from  his  lips  as  from  the  bearded 
mouths  o'  the  crack  Labrador  skippers  he  had 
met  in  his  life — there  was  no  tellin'  whether  he 
was  at  play  or  in  earnest. 

"  *  Hum  ! '  says  the  Giant-Killer.  *  Blowin' 
up.' 

"  You'd  think  un  a  man  grown.  Ecod,  yes ! 
His  wee  voice  was  gone  down  in  his  throat ;  an' 
he  was  fair  scowlin'  vast  knowledge  o'  the  sea. 

"  I  grinned. 

"  *  Ay,'  says  Skipper  Tom,  grinnin',  too ; '  a 
gale  o'  wind  outside.' 

"  *  Gale  o'  wind  ? '  the  lad  scoffed.  *  Pshaw  I 
Nothin'  but  a  sailin'  breeze ! ' 

" '  Some  slap  to  it,'  says  I. 


66        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

« '  Pst !  Why,  Tumm,  I'd  take  the  punt  out 
in  ihis^ 

" '  She'll  blow  higher,'  says  the  skipper. 

"  *  Ay,  maybe.  Let's  hope  so.  Kothin'  like 
a  gale  o'  wind  for  gettin'  along.  "What's  the 
next  port  o'  call,  sir  ? ' 

"  *  Soap-an'-Water.' 

"  *  Ha  !  So  ?  She'll  have  a  rough  passage 
across  the  bay  if  the  wind  holds.  You  got  a 
stout  craft  here,  sir  ? ' 

"^  Stout  enough.' 

"* Got  any  heels?' 

"  *  Heels  enough  t'  show  the  Dollar  for 
Dollar  her  stern  if  she  had  the  mind  t'  use  un.' 

"  The  Dollar  for  Dollar  was  lyin'  near  by. 
That  cutthroat  tradin'  pirate  !  The  lad  looked 
her  over.     *  I  believes  you,'  says  he. 

"  *  Oh,  no  trouble  at  all,'  says  Skipper  Tom, 
*for  the  Call  Again  t'  run  away  from  that 
wash-tub ! ' 

"^Hum!'  says  the  lad.  'And  the  Call 
Again  looks  it.  She've  swift  lines.  I'd  like  t' 
know  what  she  can  do  in  half  a  gale  o'  wind. 
I  wisht  we  was  goin'  out.' 

"  *  Me,  too,'  says  Skipper  Tom. 

**  The  lad  put  both  hands  on  Skipper  Tom's 


A  LEE  SHORE  67 

shoulders  an'  looked  the  ol'  man  in  the  eyes. 

*  Ah,  gran'pop,'  says  he,  *  you're  a  driver ! ' 

"  *  Well,'  says  Tom,  *  I  likes  a  breeze  o'  wind 
when  I'm  in  a  hurry.' 

"  ^  You're  a  driver ! ' 

" '  Oh,  no,'  says  Tom.  *  I  wouldn't  call  my- 
self that.' 

"  '  Yes,  you  is ! ' 

" '  Well,  well,'  says  Tom,  '  I'll  admit  that  I 
isn't  overly  fond  o'  weather  that's  too  civil.' 

"'You're  a  driver  when  you've  any  ex- 
cuse ! ' 

"  Tom  now  put  his  hands  on  the  lad's  wee 
shoulders.  *  Anyhow,'  says  he,  with  a  laugh 
an'  a  jolly  wink,  '  what's  blowin'  outside  is  jus' 
t'  my  taste  an'  I'd  like  t'  have  you  out  in  it.' 

"  '  Then  why  not  put  out  ?  ' 

"  '  I'd  love  to,  lad  ! ' 

"  '  What's  the  sense  o'  stayin'  here  ? ' 

"  The  skipper  begun  t'  fidget.  *  Oh,'  says 
he,  *  there's  good  reasons.' 

"  '  Lyin'  here  we're  losin'  time  ! ' 

"  *  Isn't  none  o'  my  business,'  says  the  skipper. 

*  Lyin'  in  harbour  I  takes  my  orders  from  the 
clerk.  An'  that's  Jot-it-Down  Jones.  An'  Jot- 
it-Down  Jones  is  ashore  for  the  night  by  the 


68        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

looks  o'  things.  'Tis  only  when  we're  at  sea 
that  I'm  sole  master  o'  this  craft.' 

"  *  Ha  ! '  says  the  lad.  '  If  I  was  the  clerk  o' 
this  here  tradin'  schooner  she'd  not  lie  like  a 
log  in  Candlestick  Cove  when  she  had  business 
at  Soap-an'- Water.' 

"  Skipper  Tom  got  up  with  a  wry  face. 
*  Tumm,'  says  he,  '  you  look  after  the  lad.  I 
got  a  bit  of  a  job  for'ard.' 

"  An'  then  Skipper  Tom  went  for'ard.  An' 
though  I  loved  Skipper  Tom  like  a  son  I  was 
disgusted.  An'  I  was  ashamed — an'  I  was 
afraid  o'  the  shame  that  was  comin'  down  on 
us  all  with  the  first  gale  o'  wind  that  cotched 
us  out  o'  harbour  or  cotched  us  in  harbour  with 
the  need  o'  puttin'  t'  sea.  .  .  .  An'  the 
weather  would  be  sure  t'  cotch  us.  There's  no 
dodgin'  the  troubles  o'  the  sea  on  this  coast. 
A  man  must  face  un  as  they  comes.  An'  a 
man  must  upon  all  occasions  make  the  best  of 
a  bad  job  or  go  shamed  ashore.  .  .  .  An' 
here  was  Tom  Tulk  lyin'  like  a  three-year-old ! 
A  coward's  lie!  A  coward's  boast  t'  win 
love  an'  praise  !  Man,  I  was  sick  at  heart  with 
fear  o'  the  hour  when  that  lie  should  fall  down 


A  LEE  SHORE  69 

like  a  mountain  an'  crush  Tom  Tulk.  .  .  . 
But  you'll  bear  in  mind  that  I'm  not  talkin' 
now  of  the  Tom  Tulk  that  was  cast  away  at 
the  ice  when  the  Blue  Streak  scraped  past  the 
Blueblack  Shoals  in  the  dark  afore  dawn — not 
of  the  Tom  Tulk  that  faced  the  seas  on  a  pan 
of  ice  somewhere  between  Mother  Burke  o' 
Cape  John  an'  the  last  rocks  o'  Newf 'un'land — 
not  of  the  Tom^Tulk  that  was  carried  blind  as 
a  bat  t'  the  cottage  by  Blow-Me  of  Eickity 
Tickle  an'  vowed  he  would  smell  his  way 
through  life  if  he  couldn't  see  it — not  of  the 
Tom  Tulk  that  was  bound  an'  determined  t' 
leave  a  tale  with  a  moral  behind  as  legacy  for 
the  coast  he  was  born  on.  I'm  talkin'  now  o' 
the  Tom  Tulk  that  was  made  cautious  by  havin' 
a  lad  t'  fend  for  an'  then  turned  coward  on  his 
own  account. 

"  An'  you'll  bear  this  in  mind,  too  :  that  the 
tale  o'  Tom  Tulk  goes  on  beyond  this  shameful 
time  t'  the  fogs  off  Bread-an'-Butter.    .    .    . 

"  '  Tumm,'  says  the  Giant-Killer,  '  I'll  take 
the  wheel.  Go  for'ard  an'  keep  a  lookout. 
An'  a  sharp  one,'  says  he,  *  ye  bay-noddie ! ' 

"  I  was  not  loath  t'  play.     *  Ay,  sir,'  says  I. 


70       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

" « We're  off  the  Harbourless  Shore.' 

" '  Ay,  sir.' 

"  *  "We're  beatin'  t'  the  s'uth'ard,  d'ye  hear  ? ' 

"  *  Ay,  sir.' 

"  '  There's  rocks  dead  ahead  in  the  mist.' 

" « Ay.' 

"  '  Cock  your  ears  for  breakers,'  says  he. 

"  Seven  year  old  ! — but  a  wonderful  hand  t' 
make  believe.  'Twas  all  real  t'  he.  The  wind 
was  in  the  riggin' :  'twas  enough  t'  make  a 
man  think  o'  the  scream  o'  the  gale  in  the  open. 
The  swish  o'  the  sea  an'  the  rumble  o'  breakers 
come  in  from  beyond  the  Candlestick  Tickle  ; 
an'  the  rain — a  black  shower  in  the  wind — 
went  peltin'  past.  An'  there  stood  the  Giant- 
Killer,  his  wee  hands  grippin'  the  wheel,  his 
little  legs  spread  wide  as  if  against  the  tumble 
o'  the  schooner,  his  sou'wester  pulled  down, 
his  eyes  blinkin'  in  the  rain  an'  his  thin  cheeks 
flushed  an'  wet  as  he  stared  ahead.  I'm  not 
knowin'  what  his  brown  eyes  seed  in  fancy : 
a  black  fog,  no  doubt,  with  cliffs  lurkin'  deadly 
in  the  mist ;  an'  I'm  sure  that  for  he  a  wild 
gale  o'  fall  weather  was  blowin'  an'  that  the 
sea  was  all  tumultuous  an'  white.  'Twas  so  for 
me,  too.    I  had  the  power  o'  fancy,  so  well  as 


A  LEE  SHORE  71 

he.  I  have  it  still.  An'  I  was  then  but  a  lad 
an'  glad  t'  play  at  sailin'  np  the  Harbourless 
Shore  o'  the  Labrador.  An'  when  I  seed  the 
wee  feller,  there  at  the  wheel,  braced  an'  grim, 
the  rocks  an'  rippled  black  water  o'  Candle- 
stick Cove  vanished ;  an'  in  their  place  come 
the  wide  white  sea,  an'  the  schooner  was  lyin' 
no  longer  at  anchor  in  snug  harbour,  but  was 
drivin'  through  the  fog,  heeled  t'  the  gale  an' 
smothered  in  white  water.  An'  the  Giant- 
Killer  scowled  like  a  swilein'  (sealing)  captain 
on  his  bridge ;  an'  it  struck  me,  I  mind,  that  if 
I  fell  short  in  my  duty  the  little  skipper  would 
know  the  reason  why. 

"  *  Where's  your  ears  ? '  he  roared. 

"  '  Ay,  sir,'  says  I.     '  Yes,  sir.' 

" '  I  hears  breakers,  ye  blockhead  ! ' 

"  *  Hard-a-lee ! '  I  sung  out. 

"  He  spun  the  wheel.  '  An'  jus'  in  time,  ye 
dunderhead ! '  he  yelled.  *  Another  ten  fathom 
an'  she'd  have  been  ashore.' 

"  I  laughed. 

"  '  Ah,  Tumm,  b'y,'  says  he,  laughin',  too,  *  I 
loves  t'  play.  You  didn't  mind  my  swearin', 
did  you  ? ' 

"*Me?'saysL    'l^dmV 


72        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  I  jus'  couldn't  help  it,'  says  he,  *  an'  I'm 
glad  I  didn't  vex  you.' 

"  *  Pshaw ! '  says  I.  ^  A  little  feller  like  you 
couldn't  vex  me  !  ' 

"He  dropped  the  wheel.  '  As  for  me,'  says 
he,  between  his  teeth,  *  I'll  skipper  a  Labrador- 
man  when  /  grows  up.' 

" '  A  good  job,  b'y  ! ' 

"He  sighed.  *If  ever  I  grows  up  at  all,' 
says  he. 

"An'  then  something  happened  that  made 
my  heart  beat  with  the  fear  o'  grief  an'  shame." 


ECODI'i 
lar  is  I 


TO  SEA 

« ^  y-^  COD ! '  says  the  lad.     '  Dolla/rfor  Dol- 
lar is  bound  out ! ' 

'low    not,'    says  I,  jumpin' 
around.     *  ]N^ot  in  this  blow.' 

"  *  They're  makin'  sail,  b'y  ! ' 

"An'  they  was!  An'  they  was  scurryin' 
about  the  deck  with  vast  laughter,  too,  an' 
saucy  glances  our  way. 

" '  Us'll  go  out ! '  says  the  Giant-Killer. 

" '  Well,  no,'  says  I.     '  ?75— won't.' 

"  The  lad  grinned.  '  My  gran'f ather'll  take 
she  out,'  says  he.  *  He's  a  wonderful  hand  t' 
drive  a  schooner  when  he've  any  good  excuse. 
You  jus'  wait  an'  see.' 

"  Jot-it-Down  Jones  come  aboard,  then,  with 
his  hair  on  end.  He  was  in  too  much  of  a  rage 
t'  do  much  but  splutter.  But  he  was  not 
touched  with  drink,  at  all,  for  he  kep'  his  rum 
for  his  rivals.  He  come  bowlin'  down  aft  on 
the  skipper  an'  the  lad  an'  me  in  a  way  that 
meant  put  t'  sea  an'  need  o'  haste.  When  he 
73 


74        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

seed  the  lad  he  stopped  au'  fair  throwed  up  his 
hands  ia  despair.  An'  then  he  come  on  again, 
his  face  all  screwed  with  worry. 

"  *  Long  Jim  Cook's  bound  over  t'  Soap-an'- 
Water  t'  get  my  fish,'  says  he,  spoutin'  his  news 
as  he  come  down  the  deck. 

"  '  Ay  ? '  says  the  skipper.     '  Well,  well ! ' 

"*  They've  had  a  run  o'  fish  at  Soap-an'- 
Water,  d'ye  hear  ? — an'  a  spurt  o'  sunshine ;  an' 
the  fish  is  all  dry  in  the  stages.  I  can't  keep 
Long  Jim  Cook  in  harbour  by  hook  or  crook. 
An'  he  says  he'll  pay  cash  an'  cut  prices  t'  rags 
t'  get  my  fish.'  By  this  time  poor  Jot-it-Down 
Jones  had  Skipper  Tom  by  the  coat ;  an'  his 
voice  was  gone  to  a  whimper,  an'  he  was  lookin' 
the  skipper  fair  in  the  eyes,  while  the  skipper 
peered  back  through  little  slits,  with  his  head 
drawed  away.  ^  Tom,  ol'  friend,'  says  he,  ^  this 
here  gale  is  good  for  three  days  when  she  sets 
in.  An'  Long  Jim  Cook  vows  t'  get  over  t' 
Soap-an'- Water  afore  she  closes  down.  Ah, 
now,  Tom,  you  wouldn't — ^you  couldn't ' 

"  *  'Tis  no  fit  time  t'  put  t'  sea,'  says  Skipper 
Tom. 

"'IS"©  fit  time!'  cries  Jot-it-Down.  ^An' 
there  goes  the  mains'l  o'  the  Dollar  for  Dollar  ! ' 


TO  SEA  75 

"  *  'Tis  sheer  follj  t'  drive  a  schooner  t'  Soap- 
an'- Water  in  a  breeze  o'  wind  like  this.' 

"Jot-it-Down  Jones  gulped  back  an  oath 
with  disgust.  ^  Know  what  Long  Jim  Cook 
says  about  me  ? '  says  he. 

"  *  Well,  no,'  says  the  skipper,  *I  doesn't.' 

"  *  Says  I  isn't  got  the  nerve  t'  go  out.' 

"'Well,  well!'  says  the  skipper.  *Do  he, 
now?' 

"  Jot-it-Down  Jones  begun  t'  dance  with  rage 
an'  hopelessness.  '  Know  what  he  says  about 
you  f  '  says  he. 

"  *  Mm  ? '  says  the  skipper,  with  a  little  jerk. 

"  *  He  says  you're  too  big  a  coward  t'  put  t' 
sea  in  half  the  wind  that  blows.' 

"'Well,  well!' 

" '  A  coward !    D'ye  hear  ? ' 

"  *  Hm-m-m ! '  says  the  skipper.  *  That's 
saucy.' 

" '  An'  now,'  says  the  clerk,  '  what  you  got  t' 
say?' 

"'AH  I  got  t'  say  is,'  says  Skipper  Tom, 
'  that  he's  a  liar.  An'  us  isn't  got  much  time 
t'  lose,'  says  he,  '  if  we're  t'  make  Soap-an'- 
Water  afore  the  night  falls  down.' " 


XI 

THE  WAY  TO  SOAP-AN^-WATEE 

*'  ir  "^  TITH  all  sail  on  but  the  tops'l,  an' 

^V^y     no  reefs  t'  beg  for  grace,  us  got 

the  Call  Again  out  o'  Candlestick 

Cove  in  the  wake  o'  the  Dollar  for  Dollar, 

which  carried  such  sail  as  we  t'  the  inch.    An' 

then  the  schooner  lay  over  t'  the  slap  o'  the 

gale,  the  wind  abeam.     "With  her  head  up  for 

Soap-an'- Water,  as  near  as  Skipper  Tom  could 

reckon  in  the  rain,  she  nosed  along  through  the 

big  white  seas  as  if  she  liked  the  taste  an'  smell 

o'  salt  spray.    It  done  Skipper  Tom  a  world  o' 

good  t'  be  out  in  the  thick  of  it  instead  o' 

skulkin'  in  harbour.     It  done  the  ol'  feller  good 

t'  have  his  hands  on  the  wheel  an'  t'  stand 

braced  like  a  man  against  the  tumble  of  his 

own    vessel.     He    was    chirky    enough,    an' 

chuckled  a  bit ;  an'  he  kep'  'lowin'  all  the  time 

that  the  schooner  done  very  well,  for  the  sea 

that  was  runnin',  an'  that  his  gran'son  would 

be  a  wonderful  comfort  on  the  cruise. 
76 


THE  WAY  TO  SOAP- AN' -WATER  77 

"  *  Keeps  a  man  up  to  his  labour,'  says  he,  '  t' 
have  his  own  little  lad  aboard.' 

"But  the  Giant-Killer  hisself  went  below, 
by  an'  by.  This  was  when  his  withered  leg 
complained — an'  when  the  wind  had  begun  t' 
bite  through  his  reefer — an'  when  he'd  chuckled 
hisself  out  o'  laughter — an'  when  he  had  had 
his  fill  o'  the  lurch  o'  the  schooner  an'  the  sight 
o'  the  white-horses  comin'  over  the  bows.  But 
he  left  the  companion  hatch  wide  open,  an' 
stretched  out  on  Jot-it-Down  Jones's  counter, 
with  a  bolt  o'  calico  for  pillow,  where  he  still 
had  a  glimpse  o'  Skipper  Tom  at  the  wheel. 
An'  he  lay  there  at  rest  an'  happy,  one  tale  o' 
the  sea,  at  least,  come  true  for  he.  From  time 
t'  time  he  would  crawl  up  t'  take  a  squint  at 
the  Dollar  for  Dollar^  tossin'  along  through 
the  smother  t'  win'ard,  neck  an'  neck  with  the 
ol'  Call  Again  /  an'  then  he  would  look  Skip- 
per Tom  over,  glee  in  his  eyes,  an'  then  he 
would  chuckle  an'  go  below  to  his  counter  an' 
calico. 

"  'Twas  blowin'  high  enough  for  comfort  by 
this  time.  The  wind  was  still  risin'.  Up  an' 
up  it  come  with  every  squall.  The  bigger  seas 
fair  smothered  the  schooner  as  they  run  past  t' 


78        777^  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

go  t'  thunderin'  smash  on  the  coast  in  the  drizzle 
o'  rain  t'  leVard.  An'  'tis  this  that  breaks  the 
heart  of  a  timid  man :  harbour  t'  make  in  haste 
from  the  weather — an'  wind  an'  sea  comin'  up,  as 
if  with  a  sullen  mind  t'  hinder — an'  the  schooner 
heelin'  lower  an'  lower  t'  the  squalls,  tired  out — 
an'  the  waves  smashin'  down,  forever  faster  an' 
heavier.  The  mind  of  a  timid  man  jumps  on,  in 
fear,  t'  what  might  happen  at  sea  afore  he  can 
make  some  shelter  o'  the  hills.  There  might 
come  a  sea  in  mountains — such  as  a  man  sees  in 
dreams — an'  there  might  come  a  wind  fit  an' 
able  t'  rip  a  vessel  fair  out  o'  the  water. 

"  I  'lowed  Skipper  Tom  wouldn't  hang  on  t' 
the  end.  JSTot  with  the  wind  jumpin' — ^not  with 
day  worn  on — not  with  whisps  o'  fog  abroad — 
not  with  the  way  t'  Soap-an'- Water  a  lather  o' 
reefs  an'  broken  seas  in  nor'easterly  gales! 
"When  I  cotched  little  Jot-it-Down  Jones, 
gloomin'  amidships  in  the  rain,  with  his  face 
scrunched  up,  I  said  so. 

"  '  I'm  waitin','  he  bawled. 

" '  He'll  break  afore  long  ! ' 

"  *  I'm  jus'  waitin'.' 

"  *  There's  signs,'  says  I. 

"  *  Ay,'  says  he,  with  his  hands  for  a  funnel 


THE  WAY  TO  SOAP- AN' -WATER  79 

against  the  wind  ;  *  he'll  want  t'  run  t'  Neigh- 
bourly Cove  for  harbour.  Oh,  I  knows  un! 
An'  I'm  waitin'.' 

" '  'Tis  a  fear  within  reason,'  says  I.  '  /'m 
scared  enough.' 

"  *  Eeason  ? '  says  the  clerk.  *  Huh !  Keason's 
not  my  master ! '  An'  he  looked  off  t'  the  Dol- 
lar for  Dollar,  He  glanced  aloft  an'  scowled. 
*  If  Tom  Tulk  would  spread  that  tops'l,'  says 
he,  *he  could  make  Soap-an'-Water  easy 
enough.' 

"*Ay,'  says  I;  ^but  that  tops'l  will  stay 
dry.' 

"  « We'll  make  Soap-an'-Water  Harbour  this 
night,'  says  Jot-it-Down  Jones,  '  or  she'll  sink — 
an'  be  damned  to  her ! ' 

"  *  Does  you  mean  it  ? ' 

"  '  Mean  it  ? '  says  he.  '  Think  I'm  goin'  t' 
let  Long  Jim  Cook  have  my  fish  while  we 
harbours  at  Neighbourly  Cove  ? ' 

"  *  Skipper  Tom  will  have  a  word  t'  say.' 

"  *  Skipper  Tom,'  says  he,  *  isn't  got  nothirC  t' 
say  on  this  passage.' 

"  *  Dear  man !    What  you  goin' t'  do  ? ' 

"  '  You  wait,'  says  he,  *  until  Tom  Tulk  tries 
it  on.' 


8o       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  It  looked  as  if  Skipper  Tom  might  try  it 
on  very  soon.  There  was  signs.  Even  a  lad 
learns  t'  read  un — at  sea ;  an'  I  had  knocked 
around  the  coast,  young  as  I  was.  The  weather 
was  such  as  t'  scare  little  schooners  t'  harbour 
like  rabbits.  Sixty  tons,  an'  no  more !  'Twas 
a  mighty  sea  for  we,  without  reefs ;  an' 
the  sea  was  jumpin'  up,  all  the  time,  an'  night 
was  runnin'  down  from  the  east  t'  cotch  us  in 
the  open. 

"  *  An'  night  will  do  it,  too,'  thinks  I,  '  afore 
we  pass  the  reefs  off  Soap-an'-Water.' 

"  Skipper  Tom  was  peerin'  all  around — t' 
win'ard,  where  the  Dollar  for  Dollar  was 
makin'  desperate  weather  of  it — ^an'  far  ahead, 
t'  the  misty  line  o'  shore  where  Soap-an'-Water 
lay — an'  t'  le'ward,  where  Neighbourly  Cove 
was  waitin'  with  arms  out  t'  harbour  us  in  snug 
water.  His  face  was  all  twisted  with  worry, 
an'  his  eyes  had  gone  back  in  his  head,  t'  flare 
out  from  black  sockets ;  an'  he'd  cotch  his 
breath,  an'  mumble,  an'  start,  an'  grit  his  teeth, 
when  he  thought  nobody  was  lookin'  t'  see. 
But  he'd  grip  his  courage  when  the  wee  little 
Giant-Killer  crawled  up  t'  see  how  she  was 
doin'.    I  could  fair  see  un  take  a  new  hold. 


THE  WAY  TO  SOAP- AN' -WATER  8i 

An'  after  that,  for  a  bit,  he'd  hang  on  with  more 
comfort. 

"  'Twas  the  sight  o'  the  Dollar  for  Dollar 
that  put  his  courage  overside,  at  last.  She  was 
makin'  sad  labour  o'  the  sea.  She  was  now 
fair  on  her  beam  ends — now  smothered  in 
white  water — now  lost  t'  sight  in  a  black 
squall  o'  rain — now  lifted  by  a  big  sea  an'  flung 
over  as  if  she'd  never  live  t'  raise  her  head 
again.  'Twas  no  comfort  t'  Skipper  Tom  t' 
watch  her  an'  know  that  his  own  plight  was  the 
same.  An'  by  an'  by  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  but  give  in  to  his  fears,  an'  called  me  aft. 

"  '  Call  the  clerk,'  says  he. 

"I  took  one  look — an'  seed  quite  enough. 
An'  I  went  amidships  for  Jot-it-Down  Jones." 


XII 
"  CEACK  ON  ! " 

«   TOT-IT-DOWN    JONES    was    waitin'. 
I    *  Have  it  come  ? '  says  he. 
" '  No  question.' 

"  *  Here  goes,'  says  he,  *  whatever  happens. 
There'll  be  a  pother  o'  trouble  an'  shame  either 
way.'  An'  he  went  off  aft  in  the  devil's  own 
temper.  '  Well  ? '  says  he,  with  a  snap,  t'  poor 
Tom  Tulk. 

"  *  I'm  'lowin'  t'  run  for  Neighbourly  Cove.' 

"  '  I  don't  see  Jim  Cook  turnin'  tail.' 

"  *  He'll  be  cast  away  I ' 

"  Jot-it-Down  Jones  made  sure,  then,  that 
Skipper  Tom  would  hear  un.  He  got  t'  win'- 
ard  an'  went  close.  *  You're  goin'  right  on  t' 
Soap-an'- Water,'  says  he,  *an'  be  damned  t' 
you ! '  An'  Skipper  Tom  knowed  that  the  clerk 
meant  it  when  he  looked  t'  see :  for  the  clerk 
had  his  eyes  all  ready  t'  drive  the  words  home. 

"  *  She'll  never  make  it,'  says  the  skipper. 

"* Then  she'll  sink!' 
82 


''CRACK  ON r'  83 

"Skipper  Tom  didn't  move  a  muscle.    He 


]US 


waited — ^until  he  understood.    An'  I  'low 


it  took  time  for  the  clerk's  big  words  t'  get  in. 

*  What  you  goin'  t'  do,'  says  the  skipper,  '  when 
I  bears  away  for  Neighbourly  Cove  ? ' 

"  *  I'll  call  the  crew,'  says  Jot-it-Down  Jones, 

*  an'  take  you  from  the  wheel.' 

"  *  You  know  what  that  means  ? ' 

"  *  I  don't  care  a  squid  what  it  means.  Long 
Jim  Cook  isn't  goin'  t'  get  my  fish.  You 
change  the  course  o'  this  here  schooner  so  long 
as  Jim  Cook  holds  on  an'  I'll  show  you  quick 
enough  what  I'll  do.' 

"*Well,  well!'  says  the  skipper.  *Well, 
well ! ' 

" '  You  hear  me  ? ' 

"  *  Anyhow,'  says  the  skipper,  *  I'll  bear  away 
t'  Neighbourly  Cove  for  harbour.' 

"  An'  he  was  jus'  about  t'  do  it,  too — an'  Jot- 
it-Down  Jones  was  jus'  about  t'  start  for'ard  t' 
get  the  crew  for  this  dogs'  affair — an'  I  was 
jus'  about  t'  jump  on  Jot-it-Down  Jones  an'  beg 
un  not  t'  shame  a  man  afore  his  own  little  lad 
— when  the  Giant-Killer  poked  his  head  out  o' 
the  cabin  hatch  an'  crawled  on  deck  t'  see  how 
the  Dollar  for  Dollar  was  doin'. 


84        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  Well,  the  Dollar  for  Dollar  was  doin'  well 
enough.  She  had  drawed  ahead.  An'  she  was 
buckled  down  to  her  labour  with  a  good  heart 
for  a  hard  task.  I'm  not  knowin'  what  the  lad 
heard  as  he  lay  below.  I'm  hopin',  God  knows, 
that  he  heard  never  a  word!  But  whatever 
an'  all  about  that,  he  fetched  us  all  to  a  stop  in 
our  tracks  an'  intentions.  An'  he  turned  on 
his  gran'father.  In  wonder — ay,  an'  in  grief  ! 
In  shame — ^in  doubt,  it  may  be — an'  in  ques- 
tion !  Skipper  Tom's  lie  was  down  at  last. 
Tales  ashore  isn't  deeds  at  sea.  An'  with  Jot- 
it-Down  Jones  minded  as  he  was — an'  with 
Tom  Tulk's  courage  gone  overside  for  good — 
an'  with  the  child's  heart  t'  be  broken  as  his 
faith  was  destroyed — 'twas  all  horrible  t'  see 
an' t'  feel. 

"  The  lad  clenched  his  hands,  an'  gritted  his 
teeth,  an'  stared  straight  into  his  gran'father's 
eyes,  in  a  passion  t'  match  the  rage  o'  Jot-it- 
Down  Jones  hisself .  Skipper  Tom  stared  back. 
Jot-it-Down  Jones  laughed — a  dry  cackle  with- 
out laughter.  An'  I  laughed,  too,  in  dread  an' 
bitterness.  'Twas  such  laughter  as  the  sight  o' 
pain  jerks  out.  For  we  knowed  what  was  goin' 
t'  happen. 


'the  dollar  for  dollar  was  doin   well  enough 


''CRACK  ON!''  85 

"  *  Crack  on ! '  says  the  lad. 

"  Skipper  Tom's  jaw  dropped ;  be  gurgled  in 
a  dry  throat — an'  stood  froze  t'  the  wheel. 

"  *  What's  the  matter  'ith  you,  gran'pop  ? 
Crack  on!'* 

"Skipper  Tom  laughed — with  pride  in  the 
lad,  maybe,  or  with  sheer  joy  in  his  comical 
rage.  I  don't  know.  He  laughed,  anyhow — 
an'  'twas  a  vast  guffaw.  An'  laughter  is  medi- 
cine for  the  nerves  of  a  man. 

"  *  For'ard,  there,  you ! '  he  bawled. 

"  Up  went  his  head.  The  watch  jumped  t' 
hear  the  new  ring  in  his  voice. 

"  *  Shake  out  that  damned  tops'l,'  he  sung  out, 
*an'  we'll  see  what  this  oF  basket  has  t' say 
about  gettin'  t'  Soap-an'-Water  afore  the  night 
falls  down ! ' 

"  Well,  well,  the  ol'  Call  Again  jumped  as 
if  she'd  been  whipped.  Off  she  slid  on  her 
beam  for  Soap-an'-Water — fair  jumpin'  from 
sea  t'  sea  an'  forever  in  a  smother  o'  spray. 
An'  the  Dollar  for  Dollar  broke  her  heart. 
No  tops'l  there!  She  fell  away  from  the 
course  an'  turned  off  with  the  wind  for  Neigh- 
bourly Cove.  The  Call  Again  hauled  down 
the  soapy  reefs  off  the  narrows  t'  Soap-an'- 


86        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"Water  in  a  gather  o'  dusk,  with  fog  ereepin' 
round  Ghost's  Head  o'  the  Cape.  'Twas  fearful 
sailin',  then.  There  was  a  chatter  o'  prayers 
in  every  man's  heart  as  the  Call  Again  chose 
black  water  from  the  lather  o'  that  place.  But 
the  skipper  took  her  in,  as  easy  as  you  likes ; 
an'  down  come  the  sails — an'  down  went  the 
anchor — an'  Skipper  Tom  laughed  again  when 
he  took  his  hands  from  the  wheel. 

"  Grand  times  in  the  for'c's'le  that  night !  A 
warm  fire  in  the  bogey-stove !  A  grand  scoff 
o'  food  an'  a  kettle  o'  the  best  tea  in  Jot-it- 
Down's  store !  An'  talk  o'  fish  an'  sailin' — an' 
a  ballad  or  two — an'  a  tale  or  more — an'  roars  o' 
foolish  laughter !  I'm  not  sure  that  poor  Jot-it- 
Down  Jones  didn't  shed  tears,  by  times ;  but  I 
does  know  that  he  couldn't  come  near  ol'  Tom 
Tulk  without  puttin'  a  hand  on  his  shoulder ; 
an'  I'll  bet  a  whale  to  a  squid  that  Skipper  Tom 
hadn't  no  objections  t'  that.  An'  by  an'  by 
Skipper  Tom  gathered  up  his  crippled  lad — all 
tired  out,  that  lad,  but  wonderful  happy — an' 
took  the  little  feller  aft  t'  stow  un  away. 
Master  Giant-Killer  had  said  never  a  word  in 
praise  o'  Tom  Tulk,  except  with  his  big  brown 


''  CRACK  ON!''  87 

eyes;  but  now  what  he  said  come  down  the 
for'c's'le  hatch  from  the  black  deck. 

"  *  Gee,  gran'pop  ! '  says  he ;  '  you — you — 
you're  a  driver  when  youVe  any  excuse ! ' 

"It  seemed  then  that  Tom  shifted  the  lad 
from  one  arm  t'  the  other. 

"  *  Ouch ! '  says  the  boy. 

"  ^  In  pain.? '  says  Tom. 

" '  Jus'  my  or  legs  an'  back.' 

"  *  I'm  wonderful  sorry,'  says  Tom. 

"  *  Oh,  well,  gran'pop,'  says  the  Giant-Killer, 
^  I  got  t'  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job ! ' 

"  '  The  best  of  a  bad  job  ? '  says  Tom.  '  Ah, 
lad,  'tis  as  good  as  a  prayer ! ' 

"  An'  that,"  Tumm  concluded,  "  is  where  oP 
Tom  Tulk  got  his  first  touch  o'  religion." 

A  good  place,  too  I 


XIII 
WINGS  O'  THE  WIND 

NOTHmG  loath,  old  Tumm,  as  a  usual 
thing,  to  yarn  of  a  black  night  in  the 
fall  of  the  year  ! — but  now  strangely 
reluctant  to  tell  of  what  presently  befell  old 
Tom  Tulk  of  Eickity  Tickle.  And  the  tale 
turned  out — as  any  man  might  foresee — to  be 
the  tale  of  a  singular  conversion  :  a  conversion 
from  fear  and  complaint  to  that  selfsame  as- 
tonishing courage  which  had  enabled  the  old 
fellow  to  jest  with  the  gigantic  misfortune  of 
his  blindness — whilst  he  made  the  best  of  it. 
It  was  at  Ginger  Tickle  of  the  Labrador  that 
Tumm  resumed  the  yarn.  The  Quick  as  Wink 
was  then  hung  up.  There  was  ice  in  the 
Straits  of  Belle  Isle — vagrant  bergs,  drifted  in 
from  the  outer  current  with  a  stout  wind  from 
the  northeast ;  and  a  vast  bank  of  black  fog 
lay  over  sea  and  ice  and  the  rocks  of  all  that 
shore.    It  was  no  time  for  the  schooner  to  be 

out  of  harbour ;  it  was  a  time  for  safe  anchor- 
88 


WINGS  a  THE  WIND  89 

age  and  a  fire  in  the  forecastle  bogey-stove. 
Time  for  yarns,  too  :  time  for  the  sort  of  yarn 
old  Tumm  had  to  spin.  A  drear  night;  a 
drip-drip  of  cold  rain  falling  from  the  fog — 
and  the  waters  of  harbour  black  and  fretful. 

Tumm  proceeded  reluctantly  to  the  tale  of 
the  quaint  little  death  that  the  Giant-Killer 
had  died  at  JSTeck-o'-Land  Bight.     .    .     . 

"  Well,  now,  lads,  we  got  our  fish  at  Soap- 
an'-Water,  an'  we  got  our  fish  in  all  the  ports 
of  the  Shore ;  an'  we  was  bound  up  t'  Kickity 
Tickle,  loaded,  when  we  fell  foul  o'  two  troubles: 
Skipper  Tom  scraped  the  Call  Again  on  Turtle- 
Back  Eock  o'  Candlestick  Cove  an'  Jack  the 
Giant-Killer  fell  ill  of  a  hemorrhage.  There 
was  cure  f o?  the  Call  Again :  there  was  none 
for  the  wee  lad.  So  Jot-it-Down  Jones  reck- 
oned that  he  could  haul  the  schooner  down  an' 
caulk  her  without  Skipper  Tom's  help  whilst 
Skipper  Tom  carried  the  little  feller  over  the 
roads  t'  Neck-o'-Land  Bight  an'  bided  there 
with  un  until  he  should  need  neither  help  nor 
company  no  more.  '  You  stay  so  long  as  you 
likes,'  says  Jot-it-Down  Jones.  *  If  you're  not 
— well — if  you're  not — quite  through — when 


90       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

I'm  ready  t'  put  out,'  says  he,  '  I'll  sail  without 
a  skipper  until  you're — well,  until  you  is — 
quite  through.'  An'  so  'twas  arranged;  Jot- 
it-Down  Jones  an'  the  crew  turned  t'  work  on 
the  Call  Agairiy  in  no  haste,  at  all,  but  jus' 
loalin'  along,  an'  Skipper  Tom  an'  me  took  the 
wan  little  Giant-Killer  through  that  drear 
weather  t'  the  cottage  at  Neck-o'-Land  Bight 
where  they  had  lived  alone  together  through 
the  winter  months  of  all  them  years. 

"  It  tired  the  Giant-Killer  t'  be  carried  over 
the  roads.  Such  a  little  journey — an'  all  so 
softly  done  !  Ay,  it  wore  the  lad  out.  Tender 
as  ol'  Tom  Tulk  was  with  un,  'twas  still  a 
wearisome  time :  for  the  way  from  Candlestick 
Cove  t'  Neck-o'-Land  Bight  is  soggy  an'  rough. 
Tom  Tulk  said  never  a  word  by  the  way  :  nor 
I.  Tom  jus'  pounded  along  with  his  burden, 
his  face  gone  white  an'  grim.  There  was 
times,  goin'  over  the  rocks,  when  I  made  sure 
that  the  wee  feller  would  sing  out  *  Ouch ! ' 
But  not  he !  There  was  never  a  grumble. 
*  Easy  does  it,  gran'pop  ! '  says  he.  *  You  is 
dom^jflne.  Don't  trouble.  Us'll  soon  be  there. 
An'  as  for  r/i^,'  says  he,  *  why,  /'m  ridin'  easy 
enough  ! '    An'  all  the  time,  as  I  knowed  from 


WINGS  a  THE  WIND  91 

the  set  of  his  lips  an'  the  lights  in  his  big  brown 
eyes,  there  was  woeful  pain  in  the  Giant-Killer's 
back  an'  legs.  I  'low  that  ol'  Tom  knowed  it, 
too :  for  ol'  Tom  pounded  on  an'  on,  grim  an' 
still,  through  the  marshes  an'  over  the  rocky 
hills,  bound  t'  make  harbour  with  his  lad  so 
soon  as  he  was  able.  *  Don't  you  fret  about 
m^,  gran'pop,'  says  the  lad.  *  There  isn't 
nothin'  much  the  matter  'ith  me,  here  in  your 
arms.  Pm  makin'  fine  weather  of  it ! '  An' 
that  was  jus'  like  the  Giant-Killer,  too :  some- 
how or  other  there  never  was  nothin'  much  the 
matter  with  he — so  far  as  another  could  tell. 
'Twas  always  :  *  Oh,  Pm  all  right !  Nothin' 
much  the  matter  'ith  me  !  ' 

"  'Twas  near  nightfall  afore  we  come  t' 
Neck-o'-Land  Bight.  A  sou'easter  brewin', 
then.  The  wind  was  comin'  in  from  the  open 
— a  mean  harbour,  that— an'  it  piled  the  seas 
up  on  the  rocks  an'  beat  upon  the  houses  in  a 
way  t'  shake  their  very  bones.  I  wondered 
what  happened  in  the  bight  when  the  winter 
gales  broke  upon  it.  Ecod,  'twas  a  wind-swept 
place !  It  seemed  t'  me  that  there  might  come 
a  time  when  the  wind  would  lay  hands  on 


92        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

Tom  Tulk's  cottage  an'  fly  away  with  it.  An' 
I  was  glad  when  Skipper  Tom  had  the  cottage 
warm  an'  bright  with  fire  an'  I  could  carry  the 
Giant-Killer  from  the  fog  an'  wind  o'  night  into 
that  pleasant  place.  Skipper  Tom  lost  no  time ; 
he  was  quick  as  a  mother  with  the  task  :  all  in 
a  flash  he  had  the  Giant-Killer  stripped  an' 
stowed  away  in  his  cot  an'  tucked  in.  'Twas 
a  performance  they  went  through.  *  I'm  bein' 
made  shipshape  for  the  night,'  says  the  lad. 
An'  then  off  went  the  skipper  t'  the  kitchen  t' 
brew  a  cup  o'  tea  t'  warm  the  lad's  marrow. 
Nobody  thought  o'  doctors  :  there  was  no  doc- 
tors on  our  coast  in  them  days ;  an'  there  was 
nothin'  for  we  t'  do  but  jus'  wait  until  the  little 
feller  got  ready  t'  slip  his  cable  an'  put  out  on 
the  long  cruise.  An'  I  waited  there  by  the  cot 
— an'  brooded,  in  fear  for  my  own  soul,  upon 
the  queer  thing  that  would  presently  befall  the 
poor  lad.  What  was  that  thing  ?  Where  was 
he  bound  for  ?  I  was  young :  I  wondered. 
An'  I  was  sad  an'  I  was  afraid. 

"  *  Hark  t'  the  wind  ! '  says  he. 

"  '  Blowin'  up,  lad.' 

"  '  Ay,  blowin'  up.  But,  oh,  Tumm,  b'y,  you 
should  hear  the  winter  winds  go  by !    Ah, 


WINGS  a  THE  WIND  93 

that's  ^HQ  !  'Tis  a  wonderful  hurry  they're  in 
sometimes.  An'  somehow  or  other  they  wants 
t'  take  everything  with  un  t'  the  places  where 
they're  goin'.  They  clutch  an'  pull.  They 
seem  not  content  t'  leave  anything  behind. 
Man,  I've  listened  often  to  un  scootin'  by! 
Where  do  they  come  from,  Tumm  ? ' 

"*  What,  lad?' 

«  '  The  big  winds,  b'y.' 

"  '  Sea  an'  shore,'  says  I. 

" '  An'  where  do  they  go  ? '  says  he. 

"  ^  Sea  an'  shore.' 

"  *  ^No,  no  ! '  says  he.  *  They  never  goes  back 
t'  where  they  comes  from.  They  keeps  on 
goin' — on  an'  on  an'  on.  They  never  stops. 
Where  do  they  go,  Tumm — where  do  they  go  ? ' 

"  '  The  ends  o'  the  earth.' 

" '  Oh,  no !  That's  not  far  enough.  They 
goes  on — away  beyond.' 

"  *  I  don't  know,'  says  I.     '  'Tis  queer.' 

"  *  An'  why  do  they  pull  so  ?  That's  queerer 
still.  They're  forever  at  it.  It  makes  a  body 
think  that  there's  something  grand  beyond. 
They  lay  hands  on  me,  Tumm ;  an'  they  seem 
t'  say,  "  Come  on  !  Come  on  !  Come  on  along 
o'  we !  "    An'  when  I'm  not  without,  but  lyin' 


94        THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

here  within,  'tis  jus'  the  same.  I  can  feel  un 
grip  the  house — an'  pull  an'  pull.  Somehow 
or  other  it  jus'  seems  as  if  they  wants  me  t'  be 
off  with  them.     I  wonder  what  they  wants  ! ' 

" '  I  don't  know,'  says  I. 

"  ^  'Tis  a  fancy  with  me,  Tumm,'  says  he, 
smilin',  '  that  I'll  go  away  with  the  wind  some 
day.  An'  somehow  or  other  I  thinks — I'd  kind 
o'  like  to.' 

"  '  But  why  ? '  says  I. 

"  ^  I  don't  know,'  says  he.  *  'Tis  mere  fancy. 
I  'low  'tis  because  the  wind  goes  so  very  far 
away  an'  sees  such  strange  places.'  " 


XIV 

MISFIT 

*'  ^^  KIPPER  TOM  come  in,  then,  with  the 

^^  tea.     '  Well,  weU,  gran'pop  ! '  says  the 

^-^  Giant-Killer,  'I've  had  my  cruise. 
Eh,  gran'pop  ?  Dear  man !  Fve  had  my 
cruise  ! ' 

"  '  Down  north,'  says  Tom. 

"  *  Down  north,  true  enough,'  says  the 
Giant-Killer.  'An'  here  I  is  back  again  all 
safe  an'  sound.    Well,  well !    Dear  man  ! ' 

"'There'll  be  another  cruise,'  says  the 
skipper,  t'  hearten  the  lad. 

" '  Another  cruise  ? ' 

"  '  Ay,  sure,  lad  ! ' 

"  '  On'y  one  more  cruise,  gran'pop  ? ' 

"  Then  all  at  once  both  seed  some  meanin'  in 
this  that  neither  had  intended.  Another  cruise  ? 
But  one  more  cruise  ?  Ay,  jus'  one  more  cruise 
— as  far  an'  strange  as  the  ends  o'  time  an' 
space.  An'  Skipper  Tom  turned  away:  I'm 
not  sure  that  he  didn't  cry — jus'  a  li'l'  bit. 

"  '  Oh,  well,  anyhow,'  says  the  Giant-Killer, 
95 


96       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

'  I've  seed  Mother  Burke  o'  Cape  John.  An' 
I've  seed  the  Cape  Norman  light.  An'  I've 
crossed  the  Straits.  An'  I've  had  a  look  at  the 
Labrador.  An'  I've  traded  the  ports  o'  the 
French  Shore.  An'  there  isn't  a  man  o' 
Neck-o'-Land  Bight  can  yarn  about  down  north 
no  more  without  my  knowin'  all  about  it.  For, 
look  you ! — /  leen  down  north  I '  An'  then  his 
eyes  opened  wide  with  the  wonder  o'  the  thing. 
*  Well,  weU ! '  says  he.  ^  Dear  man !  I  been  off 
on  a  bit  of  a  cruise  down  north.  Me  I '  He 
sighed.  '  But  somehow  or  other,'  says  he, '  I'm 
wonderful  glad  t'  be  back  in  bed  again.' 

" '  You'll  rest  well,'  says  Skipper  Tom. 

" '  Ay,  maybe.' 

"  *  An',  poor  lad,'  says  the  skipper,  '  you  needs 
rest.' 

"'Somehow  or  other,'  says  the  lad,  as  if 
'twere  a  marvel,  *  I — I — I  is  tired ! ' 

"  *  Is  you  never  been  tired  afore  ? '  says  I. 

"  *  Oh,  ay  ! '  says  he.  *  But  not  jus'  quite  like 
this.  My  legs  is  often  been  tired  an'  my  back 
is  often  been  tired.  Both  my  legs  an'  my  back 
is  often  been  tired  in  several  different  ways. 
I'm  used  t'  that.  But  now  I'm  tired  sort  of  all 
over.     Somehow  or  other  I'm  tired  inside  I ' 


MISFIT  97 

"  *  No  wonder,'  says  I.  *  Sure,  there  isn't  no 
comfort  in  a  fo'c's'le.' 

"  '  Oh,  ay ! '  says  he.  '  Dear  man,  why, 
there's  ^^6/i^y  ^'  comfort  in  a  fo'c's'le !  Sure,  if 
a  man  can't  be  comfortable  in  the  fo'c's'le  o' 
the  Call  Again  where  can  he  be  comfortable  ? 
There's  but  one  better  place  in  all  the  world.' 

"  *  Ay  ? ' 

" '  The  deck,  b'y  ! ' 

"'Ay?' 

"  *  When  the  wind's  a  gale  from  the  nor'east 
an'  a  man  haves  his  last  rag  spread.  Ah,  but 
that's  jliie  !    An'  /  knows  how  it  feels !, ' 

"  '  But  'tis  no  fit  weather ' 

"  '  Oh,  no,  Tumm  ! '  says  he.  *  I  knows  that 
well  enough.  Somehow  or  other  the  like  o' 
that  is  not  for  the  likes  o'  me.  Somehow  or 
other  I — I — I  jus'  got  t'  keep  right  on  makin' 
the  best  of  a  bad  job.' 

"  True  enough,  indeed !  An'  sad  enough. 
An'  common  enough,  too.  An'  a  puzzle  that 
no  man  can  solve.  But  who  shall  blame  ?  An' 
who  shall  place  the  blame  ?  Who  understands  ? 
'Twould  take  more  wisdom  than  the  world  con- 
tains t'  prove  that  the  little  Giant-Killer  would 
have  been  better  off — an'  that  the  world  would 


98       THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

have  been  none  the  worse — had  his  wishes  for 
ships  an'  the  sea  come  true.  The  older  I  grows 
— an'  the  more  I  learns  of  the  end  o'  many 
paths  that  seem  fair  enough  t'  tread — the  less  I 
likes  t'  call  This  good  an'  That  evil.  It  may 
be  well  enough  that  the  fairest  luck  a  man  can 
have  in  life  is  the  good  job  o'  makin'  the  best 
of  a  bad  one." 

Tumm  laughed  at  his  own  foolish  philos- 
ophy.   .    . 


XT 

WEIGHING  ANCHOE 

"  TTN  them  old  days  at  l!Teck-o'-Land  Bight, 
I  as  elsewhere  in  the  world,"  the  clerk 
went  on,  "they  used  t'  listen  for  the 
last  words  o'  the  dyin'.  Was  the  death  tri- 
umphant ?  Or  was  it,  God  help  us  all ! — was 
it  not  ?  'Twas  a  simple  place :  'twas  far  out  o' 
the  world — out  o'  the  world  even  of  this  coast. 
'Tis  even  now  much  like  it  used  t'  be,  long,  long 
ago,  when  the  forebears  o'  the  folk  first  settled 
there  t'  fish.  What  should  change  it  ?  An'  I 
mind  well  the  time  when  Solomon  Junk  o' 
E'eck-o'-Land  Bight  lost  his  third  wife.  A 
shrew,  she  !  I've  no  doubt  that  Solomon  Junk 
was  glad  enough  t'  be  rid  of  her  for  good  an' 
all.  At  the  end  she  said  nothin'  at  all.  An' 
'twas  like  her  t'  be  perverse.  Nar  a  word  ! 
They  listened.  But  there  was  never  a  sign  o' 
repentance  or  fear  or  hope.  Solomon  Junk's 
third  wife  jus'  lay  grim  an'  silent  on  her  bed 
until  the  last  spark  o'  life  went  out.  I've 
99 


loo     THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

thought  many  a  time  that  the  old  woman  was 
a  shrew  t'  the  last.  She'd  give  nobody  no 
satisfaction.  She'd  bewilder  un  all.  An'  so 
here  was  a  wonderful  puzzle  for  the  parson  o' 
that  time  !  Solomon  Junk's  third  wife  was  a 
church-member  an'  a  regular  attendant.  But 
she  had  given  no  witness  at  the  last.  Had  she 
died  in  hope — or  had  she  not?  Who  could 
tell  ?  An'  what  was  the  parson  t'  say  on  Sun- 
day evenin'  ? 

"Bein'  a  wise  man  the  parson  said  a  deal 
about  death  an'  judgment  an'  nothin'  about 
Solomon  Junk's  third  wife  until  his  sermon  was 
preached  through  t'  the  end. 

"  *  Solomon  Junk,'  says  he,  '  stand  up.' 

"Skipper  Solomon  stood  up  an'  waited  for 
the  worst  that  could  happen. 

"  *  Skipper  Solomon,'  says  the  parson,  '  how 
do  you  say,  is  there  hope  for  the  departed  ? ' 

"  *  "Well,  sir,'  says  Skipper  Solomon,  *  I  don't 
know.' 

"  *  Accordin'  t'  your  knowledge  o'  the  Scrip- 
tures an'  your  acquaintance  with  your  wife,' 
says  the  parson,  *  how  say  you  ? ' 

"*Well,  sir,  accordin'  t'  my  knowledge  o' 
the  Scriptures,  an'  'specially  accordin'  t'  my 


WEIGHING  ANCHOR'^  '   v  loi  >. '  \ 

acquaintance  with  my  wife,  sir,''  i^a^s  '^kip^ei>*. ;  '• ! 
Solomon,  '  I  should  say,  sir,  that  the  departed 
hasn't  got  no  hope.' 

"An'  so  they  damned  the  poor  woman  for 
good  an'  all.  .  .  .  Nobody  booted  Skipper 
Solomon.  An'  I've  never  been  told  that  any- 
body booted  the  parson.  ...  A  queer  tale, 
eh  ?    But  true.    .    .    . 

"  Ah,  well !  'Twas  ordained  that  the  little 
Giant-Killer  should  die.  You  knows  that  well 
enough  without  my  tellin'  it.  Aboard  the  Call 
Again  he  had  been  only  a  poor  doomed  little 
mite  makin'  the  best  of  a  bad  job.  An'  now, 
lyin'  there  in  his  cot  at  Neck-o'-Land  Bight,  he 
begun  t'  wilt  like  a  leaf  in  the  first  frosts  o' 
fall.  But  he  was  not  troubled  at  all.  '/ 
doesn't  mind  it,'  says  he.  *  Why,  goodness,  I 
likes  t'  lie  here  like  this ! '  Maybe  he  didn't 
notice  that  he  was  failin'  fast.  He  was  so  used 
t'  makin'  the  best  of  a  bad  job — so  used  t'  pain 
an'  weakness— that  he  give  that  sort  o'  thing 
scant  attention.  'Twas  not  the  worst  that  he 
considered :  'twas  always  the  best.  An'  the 
best  that  was  his  portion  then  was  a  wonder- 
ful great  store  o'  love  an'  care.     He  was  only  a 


I02      tilE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

bliild.  Ecod !  he  was  not  much  more  than  a 
baby  in  years.  But  a  child  with  a  bad  back 
an'  bad  legs  grows  fast  in  other  ways  than  age. 
An'  the  little  Giant-Killer,  child  that  he  was, 
lived  out  his  life  t'  the  end  with  the  courage  of 
a  prophet.  '  I'm  wonderful  comfortable,  here 
with  you  an'  Tumm,  gran'pop,'  says  he.  '  Pm 
all  right.  I'm  glad  t'  have  you  home.  An' 
I'm  glad  t'  have  a  friend — like  Tumm :  for  I 
never  had  a  friend  afore.  Why,  I'm  havin'  a 
wonderful  grand  time,  gran'pop,  lyin'  sick  here 
in  bed ! ' 

"  'Twas  Tom  Tulk  an'  the  parson  from  Can- 
dlestick Cove  that  told  the  lad  that  he  was  t' 
die.  Tom  Tulk  didn't  want  t'  have  un  told. 
Tom  Tulk  wanted  t'  have  the  lad  slip  his 
cable  without  knowin'  a  thing  about  it — 
wanted  t'  have  un  lie  in  peace  where  he 
was  an'  put  out  at  last  like  a  man  jus'  fallin' 
asleep. 

"'What's  the  use  o'  tellin'  him?'  says  he. 
'  He  don't  need  t'  be  told.' 

"  But  the  neighbours  insisted. 

"  *  Damme  ! '  says  Tom ;  *  he've  made  the  best 
of  a  bad  job  all  his  life  long  an'  there  isn't  no 
terrors  in  store  for  he.     Dear  God ! '  says  Tom  ; 


WEIGHING  ANCHOR  103 

*  there  can't  be  no  punishments  laid  up  for  a 
little  lad  like  he ! ' 

"  *  If  you're  feelin'  that  way  about  it,'  says 
the  neighbours,  '  you  better  call  in  a  parson.' 

"'What  for? 'says  Tom. 

" '  T'  ease  the  lad  off.' 

"  *  Dear  man  ! '  says  Tom ;  *he's  ridin'  j^er- 
fectly  easy.' 

" '  Ah,  well,  you've  your  own  soul  t'  save.' 

"  *  I  isn't  thinhin^  about  my  own  soul.' 

"  <  'Tis  time  t'  think  about  the  lad's  poor  soul. 
'Twould  be  no  credit  t'  you  if  he  lost  it.' 

"  '  But  he  canH  lose  it ! ' 

"  *  Skipper  Thomas,'  says  they,  *  go  fetch  a 
parson.' 

"  '  Hang  the  parson ! '  says  Tom. 

"Jus'  the  same,  what  the  neighbours  said 
about  death,  'an'  about  original  sin  an'  the  judg- 
ment, got  Tom  t'  worryin'.  An'  I  got  t'  wor- 
ryin',  too.  *  It  can't  do  no  harm  anyhow,'  says 
I.  *You  better  get  a  parson,  Skipper  Tom. 
There  isn't  a  parson  in  the  world  that  can  scare 
that  lad  ! '  An'  by  an'  by  Skipper  Tom  went 
over  t'  Candlestick  Cove  and  fetched  back  the 
parson.  An'  no  mistake  had  been  made,  be- 
lieve me !    The  parson  from  Candlestick  Cove 


I04      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

was  a  wise,  kind  old  man,  used  t'  the  troubles  of 
his  folk,  an'  all  mellow  with  love.  An'  so  they 
went  in  together  t'  tell  the  lad.  An'  I  followed. 
'Twas  comin'  on  twilight :  I  mind  it  well — 
twilight  of  a  cloudy  day.  An'  'twas  not  Tom 
Tulk  that  told  the  lad  that  he  was  t'  die. 
'Twas  the  parson.  An'  the  parson  was  so  wise 
an'  tender  that  the  Giant-Killer  smiled  when  he 
heard  the  news.  The  lad  listened  to  the  soft, 
grave  voice — an'  he  puzzled  a  bit — an'  his  eyes 
opened  wide — an'  he  turned  at  last  t'  Tom 
Tulk.  He  was  not  afraid :  he  was  wonder- 
struck — ^an'  maybe  jus'  a  little  bit  amused. 
Here  was  a  cruise,  indeed  ! — a  cruise  t'  the  far 
places  of  his  dreams.  An'  he  was  nothin'  loath 
t'  venture  forth. 

"  *  Die  ! '  says  he.    '  Me  ? ' 

"  <  Poor  lad  ! '  says  Tom  Tulk. 

" '  I  isn't  afraid,  gran'pop,'  says  the  Giant- 
Killer.  *  Don't  you  trouble  about  me.  Why, 
Til  do  well  enough ! ' 

" '  Dear  lad ! '  says  Tom. 

"*  Die! 'the  lad  mused.  *  Well,  well!  Think 
o'that!  Die!  Me!'  An' then  he  asked  Tom 
Tulk:  'Will  it  be  soon?' 

"*  Not  long,  lad.' 


WEIGHING  ANCHOR  105 

"*  To-night?' 

"  <  Oh,  God ! '  Tom  groaned.  '  ISTot  to-night 
— not  so  soon  as  that ! ' 

"  '  Don't  trouble,  gran'pop ! '  says  the  lad. 
*  Oh,  don't !  Pll  make  fair  weather  of  it.'  He 
begun  t'  cry  a  little.  ^  But  what  is  you  goin'  t' 
do?' 

"  '  God  knows  ! ' 

"  *  Gran'pop,'  says  the  lad,  *  you'll  jus'  have 
t'  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job  ! ' 

"  *  I  will,  God  help  me ! ' 

" '  I'm  sorry  you  got  to,  gran'pop,'  says  the 
lad.    *  It's  such  a  wonderful  hard  thing  t'  do.'  " 


XVI 

FAE  PLACES 

"  A  W  the  ol'  parson  from  Candlestick 
/■^  Cove  said  many  comforting  things. 
A  gentle  face  an'  way  he  had :  a 
slow,  grave,  soft  voice.  An'  he  had  a  heart  o' 
love.  Tom  Tulk  an'  the  little  Giant-Ealler  lis- 
tened t'  the  hopeful  truths  he  told  about  life  an' 
death  an'  eternity ;  an'  somehow  or  other — so 
tender  these  words  an'  so  splendid  the  hope — 
death  was  not  a  fearsome  thing  any  more  an' 
the  places  of  Eternity  seemed  desirable.  An' 
presently  after  the  parson  had  gone  away  it 
fell  dusk.  A'gusty  wind  outside  :  it  drove  off- 
shore, thick  with  broken  black  clouds,  flyin' 
low  an'  ragged  over  the  earth.  An'  dark  come 
on.  All  the  light  in  the  room  was  the  light  o' 
the  stars  that  peeped  in  upon  us  like  good  com- 
pany through  the  rents  in  the  streamin'  sky. 
But  the  Giant-Killer  would  have  no  lamp.  He 
was  lifted,  then,  on  the  pillow  ;  an'  he  lay  star- 
in'  out  o'  the  window — t'  the  clouds  the  wind 

was  blowin'  out  t'  sea  an' t'  the  tender  little 
io6 


FAR  PLACES  107 

stars  in  the  far  sky  beyond.  An'  ol'  Tom  Tulk 
an'  me  sat  downcast  in  the  dark  while  the  wee 
lad  dreamed  his  own  brave  dreams  o'  those  far 
places  t'  which  he  was  bound. 

"  '  I'm  goin'  away,'  he  whispered,  by  an'  by. 
*  Well,  well !  Dear  man !  I'm  goin'  away 
again ! ' 

"  Ay,  goin'  away  I 

"  *  I'm  goin'  away  all  alone  this  time,'  says 
he.    '  I — wonders  where.' 

"  Ah,  well ! 

"Wind  outside:  swift  gusts  o'  black  wind 
runnin'  out  o'  the  wilderness  an'  bound  t'  sea. 
An'  the  room  was  dark ;  an'  all  the  light  in  the 
world  was  beyond  our  place — outside  with  the 
wind  an'  the  clouds  an'  the  stars.  An'  the 
Giant-Killer  listened  t'  the  wind — an'  watched 
the  clouds  drift  across  the  pale  sky  on  their 
long  journey — an'  searched  the  stars  flung 
broadcast  in  the  distances  beyond.  An'  when 
his  spirit  was  once  more  returned  t'  the  dark- 
ness of  our  room  he  had  strange  fancies  such  as 
come  t'  them  that  die  o'  the  decline. 

" '  Gran'pop  ! '  he  whispered.  *  Where  is 
you?' 


io8      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  Sittin'  close  beside  you,  lad.' 

"  *  Come  closer,  gran'pop.  I  wants  t'  know 
that  you're  near.  Ah,  that's  fine !  I  feels  you 
now.     Hark  ! ' 

"  We  listened. 

"  *  Blowin'  up,'  says  he. 

"  Again  we  hearkened  t'  the  wind  go  past  on 
its  long  journey. 

"  '  Wind's  from  the  s'uth'ard,'  says  he.  *  'Tis 
bound  down  north  an'  far  away.  An'  all  the 
clouds  is  goin'  along.  They'll  see  strange 
places.  Dear  man,  they'll  have  a  wonderful 
cruise !  They'll  pass  Cape  John  an'  peep  in  at 
the  Gull  Island  light.' 

" '  Ay.' 

"  *  An'  sweep  the  Horse  Islands.' 

"  *  Ay.' 

"*An'  touch  the  harbours  o'  the  French 
Shore  an'  cross  the  Straits.' 

"  *  Ay.' 

"  *  An'  go  down  the  Labrador.  .  . 
Gran'pop !  Does  you  hear  me  ?  .  .  .  I'm 
goin'  farther  than  that.' 

" '  Where,  lad  ? ' 

"  '  Away  down  north,  gran'pop  !  Beyond 
Eun-by-Guess  an'  the  Hen-an'-Chickens.      I'll 


FAR  PLACES  109 

see  Indian  Harbour  an'  Cape  Mugford.  An' 
I'm  bound  beyond  even  that.' 

"  *  So  far,  lad  ?  ' 

"  *  Beyond  Chidley,  gran'pop  ! ' 

"*Ay?' 

"  *  Further  yet !  I'm  bound  past  the  North 
Pole !  I'm  bound  on  an'  on  an'  on !  .  .  . 
Gran'pop  !  Does  you  hear  me  ?  Oh,  listen ! 
'Tis  a  wonderful  thing  !  .  .  .  Look  out  o' 
the  window.    What  does  you  see  ? ' 

"  *  I  sees  clouds.' 

" '  There's  more  than  that.  Look  again  an' 
tell  me  what  you  sees.' 

"  '  I  sees  nothin'  but  clouds.' 

"*Look  once  more.  Oh,  there's  so  much 
more  t'  see  ! ' 

"  *  There's  stars  beyond.' 

"  *  Ay,  stars  !  They  fill  the  last  places.  An' 
I'm  bound  there.  .  .  .  Oh,  listen!  'Tis 
such  a  wonderful  thing  !  .  .  .  'Tis  like  an- 
other sea  up  there.  An'  all  the  stars  is  islands. 
How  many  stars  ?  Oh,  no  man  can  count  un ! 
.  .  .  Listen !  Listen !  'Tis  all  so  wonder- 
ful. .  .  .  I'll  cruise  up  there.  I'll  sail 
from  star  t'  star.  A  million  stars  !  A  million 
harbours !     There'll  always  be  strange  coasts 


I  lo      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

an'  new  places.  .  .  .  An'  I'm  bound  there. 
An'  I've  not  long  t'  wait.  Star  t'  star  !  I'll 
sail  from  star  t'  star !  .  .  .  Oh,  gran'pop, 
'tis  a  wonderful  thing  t'  die  ! ' 

"  Tom  Tulk  was  cry  in'. 

"  '  Don't  cry,  gran'pop ! ' 

"  *  I  can't  help  it,  lad.  I'm  wonderful  glad 
that  your  wish  for  far  places  will  come  true. 
But— oh,  'tis  so  hard  t'  see  you  start ! ' 

"  *  I'm  not  afraid.' 

"  ^  No ;  you  isn't  afraid.' 

"*  You've  teached  me  not  t'  be  afraid  o' 
nothin'.' 

"  *  Ah,  but  you  starts  alone ! ' 

"  *  I'm  not  afraid.' 

"  *  I'll  miss  you  so  ! ' 

"  Then  the  lad  sat  up  in  bed.  *  Listen  ! '  says 
he,  in  wonder.  *  Oh,  listen !  I've  thought  of 
a  wonderful  thing.  Oh,  I  never  thought  o' 
such  a  wonderful  thing  afore.     .     .     .     Listen  ! 

.     .    I'll  not  go  cruisin'  yet.' 

"  '  ISTot  yet  ? ' 

" '  Oh,  no  !    Not  yet.     I'll  hang  offshore.' 

"*Ay,  lad?' 

"  '  I'll  hang  offshore — jus'  beyond  the  clouds.' 

"  '  What  for,  lad  ? ' 


FAR  PLACES  in 

" '  Waitin'  for  you  t'  come ! ' 

"  An'  or  Tom  Tulk  begun  t'  cry  again.    .    .    . 

"  Ah,  well,  'twas  ordained  that  the  lad  should 
die.  ...  *  A  wonderful  thing  t'  die  ! '  says 
he.  ...  A  brave  way  t'  deal  with  Fate  I 
T'  make  the  best  o'  the  worst :  t'  take  the  worst 
an'  get  the  best.  .  .  .  An'  maybe  Jack  the 
Giant-Killer  served  his  purpose  in  the  world  an' 
is  now  with  ol'  Tom  Tulk  cruisin'  stranger  coasts 
than  all  the  coasts  o'  the  earth  he  could  not  see. 
He  lived  a  big  life  for  a  wee  feller  like  he.  He 
teached  Tom  Tulk  t'  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job  ; 
an'  afore  Tom  Tulk  had  done  with  life  Tom 
Tulk  had  teached  this  coast  just  what  the  lad  had 
teached  t'  him.  An'  on  goes  the  lesson — on  an' 
on  an'  on  :  there's  no  tellin'  when  it  will  stop. 
I  teaches  you.  You'll  teach  it  elsewhere.  For 
generations  t'  come  they'll  teach  it  in  the 
fo'c's'les  o'  the  Labrador.  Ecod,  but  the  wan 
little  Giant-Killer  lived  true  to  his  name! 
He've  done  t'  death  many  a  giant  o'  Fear  an' 
Complaint  an'  Despair." 

Tumm  paused. 

"I  'low,"  said  he,  abruptly,  "  that  I'll  go  aft 
t'  the  cabin  an'  give  my  little  rose-bush  a  drop 


112      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

o'  water.  I-m  hopiu'  t'  get  a  flower  some  day 
from  that  little  rose-bush." 

"  You're  wonderful  fond  o'  that  rose-bush," 
said  the  skipper  of  the  Quick  a&  Wink, 

"  Ay,"  Tumm  admitted. 

"  A  scrawny  thing  !  " 

"  Ah,  well,  I've  hopes." 

"  'Twill  die  on  your  hands." 

"  I  tells  you,"  Tumm  insisted,  "  that  I'll  get 
a  flower  from  that  liT  rose-bush  one  o'  these 
days ! " 

And  there  was  no  more  of  the  tale  of  Tom 
Tulk  for  the  time.    ... 


XYII 
A  BIT  OF  A  CEUISE 

THE  wind  was  up  and  down  the  mast. 
There  was  no  wind  at  all.  And  the 
Quick  as  Wink  dawdled  in  the  sleepy- 
waters  off  Linger  Tickle.  Tumm  whistled  for  a 
breeze  to  carry  us  in.  JSTot  so  much  as  a  breath 
stirred  in  reponse.  Tumm  scratched  the 
anchor.  A  strong  measure!  But  it  brought 
no  breeze.  And  then  Tumm  cast  caution 
overboard.  "Whatever  happens,"  says  he, 
"  here  goes ! "  He  threw  a  penny  over  the  side. 
And  then  saucily  incanted :  "  There,  devil,  give 
us  a  copper's  worth  o'  wind ! "  We  waited  in 
hopeful  expectation ;  and  presently,  sure  enough, 
a  little  wind  crept  in  from  the  open,  picked  up 
the  QuioJclas  Wink,  carried  her  to  the  anchor- 
age of  Linger  Tickle  and  expired  exhausted. 
And  on  deck,  that  night,  under  the  Linger 
Tickle  stars,  Tumm  resumed  the  blithe  tale  of 
oldTomTulk.     .     .    . 

"  Tom  Tulk  was  never  the  same  ao:ain,"  the 

113 


114     THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

clerk  went  on.  "  From  bein'  a  reckless  driver 
in  his  youth  an'  a  timid  skipper  in  middle 
life  he  come  to  a  cheery  old  age  which  no 
fortune  could  daunt.  What  happened  to  un  ? 
I  wonder  !  What  changed  un  when  the  little 
Giant-Killer  said,  *  Oh,  well,  I  got  t'  make  the 
best  of  a  bad  job ! '  on  deck  that  night  at  Soap- 
an'-Water  ?  What  happened  t'  oF  Tom  Tulk  ? 
God  knows  !  I  don't.  But  I've  thought,  some- 
times, that  the  Giant-Killer's  patient  words  was 
like  a  light  thereafter  t'  the  path  of  ol'  Tom 
Tulk.  The  best  of  a  bad  job!  *0h,  well, 
gran'pop,  I  got  t'  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job ! ' 
says  the  Giant-Killer.  An'  'twas  thereafter  ol' 
Tom  Tulk's  religion  t'  do  the  same. 

"*My  favourite  Bible-tex','  ol'  Tom  used  t' 
say,  '  is  "  A  liT  kid^makes  the  best  pilot." ' 

"  Afore  the  fall  gales  o'  that  year  had  done 
with  blowin',  Tom  Tulk  laid  the  Giant-Killer 
away  in  the  only  bed  the  wee  chap  could  be 
sure  o'  restin'  in  without  pain.  'Twas  at  Eickity 
Tickle  :  a  lee  spot — green  an'  flowery  in  summer 
time — on  the  slope  o'  Sunshine  Hill.  An'  after 
that  Tom  Tulk  moved  t'  Eickity  Tickle  for  good 
an'  lived  in  his  cottage  by  Blow-Me.  He 
would  skipper  a  trader  no  longer.     So  Finch-a- 


A  BIT  OF  A  CRUISE  115 

Penny  Peter  got  a  new  master  for  the  Call 
Again;  an'  Tom  Tulk— ol'  Tom  Tulk— took 
the  Seventh  Son  down  north  t'  fish  the 
Labrador  on  shares  for  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter. 
Season  after  season  he  took  her  down  an'  come 
back  loaded  or  with  a  blithe  heart  made  the 
best  of  a  bad  job  ;  an'  so  life  went  along  with 
un  until  he  was  cast  away  at  the  ice  an'  there 
fried  his  eyes,  as  I've  told. 

"  A  good  man,  sure !  An'  a  brave  man,  too ! 
A  stout-hearted  ol'  codger,  in  the  last  years 
o'  life,  when  men's  hearts  fail !  An  ol'  feller 
lusty  in  the  spirit,  not  cast  down  by  age,  not 
daunted  by  any  mishap,  willin'  at  all  times  for 
the  harsh  labour  o'  these  coasts,  quick  with 
cheery  words  an'  limpid  jokes  with  which  t' 
get  t'  win'ward  o'  fear  an'  melancholy  !  Thus 
he  come  t'  be  when  the  little  Giant-Killer  had 
give  un  a  compass  o'  truth  t'  guide  his  course 
in  the  world  an'  had  put  in  his  ol'  heart  the 
hope  o'  makin'  some  harbour  in  good  company. 
An'  thus  he  continued  t'  be  until  he  got  cast 
away  at  the  ice  an'  damaged  his  sight  beyond 
repair.  You  mind  the  yarn  I  spun  for  you  in 
Pinch-a-Penny's  ol'  shop  at  Eickity  Tickle  ? — 
of  how  Tom  Tulk  was  lost  an'  abandoned  when 


Ii6      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

Pinch-a-Penny's  Blue  Streak  scraped  past  the 
Blueblack  Shoal  ?  an'  of  how  Tom  Tulk  swam 
t'  the  comfort  o'  young  Jerry  Tall  ?  an'  of  how 
Tom  Tulk  fought  for  life  against  the  big  white 
seas  that  beat  un  down  ?  an'  of  how  Tom  Tulk 
kept  on  crawlin'  over  the  ice  towards  Rickity 
Tickle  when  he  had  no  sight  for  walkin'no  more? 

"  Well,  that  was  the  kind  of  ol'  codger  that 
or  Tom  Tulk  had  come  t'  be. 

"An' why? 

"  *  I  got  religion,'  says  Tom. 

"  What  religion  ? 

"  *  You'll  find  my  text,'  says  Tom,  grave  as 
a  parson,  *  in  a  portion  o'  the  Book  of  Ecclesi- 
astes,  chapter  twelve,  thirteenth  verse:  "Let 
us  hear  the  conclusion  o'  the  whole  matter :  A 
good^man  makes  the  best  of  a  bad  job." ' 

"  An'  the  ol'  codger  done  it,  too  !  He  done 
it  when  he  used  t'  take  the  Seventh  Son  down 
t'  the  Labrador  fishin',  year  after  year,  an' 
come  back  loaded  or  with  a  blithe  heart  make 
the  light  o'  the  failure  an'  face  a  lean  winter 
with  a  smile  an'  a  saucy  grin.  '  As  for  me,' 
says  he,  'my  friend  is  Laughter  from  Get- 
Along-Somehow  an'  my  best  bedfellow  is 
called  Grit.     Pll  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job, 


A  BIT  OF  A  CRUISE  117 

never  fear  !  An'  I'll  live  an'  leave  a  tale  with 
a  moral,  too,  as  every  good  man  should  do, 
whether  he  dies  rich  or  poor — a  tale  that 
they'll  tell  in  the  fo'c's'les  o'  the  Labrador 
fleet  o'  black  nights  when  the  bones  of  ol'  Tom 
Tulk  is  long  gone  t'  dust  on  Sunshine  Hill  or 
is  picked  clean  by  the  fishes  that  swims  these 
shores.'  Well,  well !  Dear  man !  'Twas  a 
clean  boast,  fulfilled  every  day  of  ol'  Tom 
Tulk's  life.  An'  'twas  a  vast  promise  o'  future 
behaviour  in  whatever  the  fortune  that  fell. 
An'  here  was  Tom  Tulk,  in  the  spring  o'  the 
year,  old  past  the  vigour  o'  men  as  lusty  for 
labour  as  he,  an'  now  fetched  in  from  the  ice, 
bruised  an'  frost-bit  an'  blind  as  a  bat,  with 
nothin'  t'  look  forward  to,  that  any  man  could 
see,  but  a  seat  in  the  sun  an'  the  charity  o'  the 
tender-hearted. 

"  '  Daunted  ?  '  says  he.     '  Mef 

"^Last  harbour,  lad,'  says  Pinch-a-Penny 
Peter. 

"  '  Isn't  I  got  my  religion  ?  Damme,  read 
your  Bible!  Ecclesiastes,  chapter  twelve, 
verse  thirteen ! ' 

"  '^"0  more  goin'  t'  sea.' 

"  '  Dainme,  Skipper  Peter,'  says  the  ol'  feUer, 


Ii8      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

when  they  got  un  stowed  away  in  bed,  '  if  I 
can't  see  my  way  through  life  I'll  smell  it !  I'll 
make  the  best  of  a  bad  job.     You  mark  m^  / ' 

"  An'  he  done  it  in  the  way  that  I'll  presently 
teU. 

"  I  mind  well  what  happened  soon  after  Tom 
Tulk  went  snow-blind.  'Twas  a  thing  that  no 
man  could  forget.  Tom  Tulk  was  up  an'  about 
the  house  an'  hearty  enough  by  that  time. 
But  his  eyes  was  still  bandaged ;  an'  no  man 
could  tell — nor  did  Tom  Tulk  know — whether 
he  was  blind  for  good  an'  all  or  not.  'Twas 
still  spring  weather :  the  harbour  was  free,  the 
tickle  was  clear,  there  was  no  ice  offshore,  an' 
the  yellow  sunshine  fell  warm  an'  thick  on  the 
platform  o'  Tom's  cottage  by  Blow-Me.  An' 
I  found  the  ol'  codger  in  the  kitchen.  There 
he  stood,  in  the  middle  o'  the  kitchen  floor, 
blind  as  a  bat,  talkin'  in  the  strangest  fashion 
to  hisself .  *  Port ! '  says  he,  as  he  groped  about. 
'  Starboard  a  little ! '  There  was  nobody  about 
t'  hear  un.  *  Steady  as  she  goes ! '  says  he. 
*  An'  now,'  says  he,  *  I  'low  I've  learned  my 
lesson.'  An'  then  somehow  or  other  he  got  ear 
o'  me  standin'  in  the  door. 


A  BIT  OF  A  CRUISE  119 

"He  jumped  around.  '"Who's  that?'  says 
he. 

"  *  Tumm,  sir.' 

" '  Ah,  well,  Tumm,'  says  he,  "^  don't  you  mind 
the  little  jump  I  give.  I  isn't  quite  used  t' 
doin'  without  my  eyes.' 

" '  What  is  you  doin'  ? '  says  I. 

"He  laughed.  <Me?'  says  he.  <0h,  I'm 
havin'  a  wonderful  good  time  gettin'  acquainted 
with  my  own  kitchen  an'  door-step.  I've  lived 
in  this  kitchen  for  a  number  o'  years,  Tumm,  an' 
yet,  somehow  or  other,  I've  learned  more  about 
my  tables  an'  chairs  in  the  last  hour  than  ever 
I  knowed  before.  I  tells  you,  lad,  eyes  isn't 
everything.  When  a  man  haves  two  hands  t' 
feel  with  he  can  do  very  well.  An'  now  I'll 
show  you  what  I  means.  Did  you  look  at  the 
platform  as  you  come  up  the  path  ? ' 

" '  I  did.' 

"  <  Yery  good,'  says  he.  '  What  did  you 
see  ? ' 

" '  I  seed  a  chair.' 

"'Eight!'  says  he.  'That's  my  ol'  arm- 
chair. An'  now,  Tumm,'  says  he,  '  Pm  goin^ 
out  wrC  sit  down.'' 

" '  Give  me  your  hand,'  says  I. 


I20      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  Oh,  no ! '  says  he.  *  ]^ot  much !  I  doesn't 
want  t'  be  led.  I'm  goin'  out  on  the  platform 
an'  sit  down  in  my  ol'  armchair  without  any 
help  at  all.' 

"  *  Dear  man  ! '  says  I.  *  Your  eyes  is  band- 
aged.    You  can't ' 

" '  Yes,  I  can  ! '  says  he. 

"'Ay,  but ' 

"  *  An'  if  I  can  do  that,'  says  he,  *  I  can  learn 
t'  do  a  deal  more.' 

"  '  There's  many  things  in  the  way,'  says  I. 
<  You'll  strike.' 

"  *  How  does  you  know,  Tumm,  that  there's 
many  things  in  the  way  ?  ' 

"  *  I  sees  un.' 

" '  Jus'  so,'  says  he.  *  You  sees  un.  An' 
does  you  think  that  there's  no  other  way  o' 
findin'out?' 

" '  Maybe,'  says  I. 

"  *  Oh,  pshaw,  Tumm  ! '  says  he.  *  I  know 
what's  in  the  way  just  so  well  as  you  does. 
Eyes  isn't  everything.  I've  got  my  course  laid 
out  an'  I'll  not  strike  nothin'  as  I  goes.  Any- 
how, I'm  goin',  hit  or  miss.  If  I  happen  t' 
strike,  why,  I  'low  I'll  be  cast  away.  An'  I'll 
not  go  by  the  front  door  neither.    That's  too 


A  BIT  OF  A  CRUISE  121 

easy.  I'll  go  out  the  kitchen  door  an'  around 
t'  the  front  o'  the  house.' 

"  '  Give  me  your  hand,'  says  I. 

"'Oh,  no,'  says  he.  'I'm  aU  right.  I've 
been  over  the  course  an'  sounded  an'  charted  it. 
'Twill  be  a  lesson  t'  watch  me.' 

"  With  that  the  ol'  codger  backed  up  t'  the 
settle  an'  squared  his  course  by  its  direction. 
'  Go  ahead ! '  says  he,  like  a  captain  sendin' 
signals  t'  the  engineer  an'  wheelsman.  An'  off 
he  started.  '  Port  a  little  ! '  says  he.  An'  jus' 
in  time,  too !  He  was  near  ashore  on  the  table. 
'  Starboard  ! '  says  he.  An'  he  scraped  past  a 
naughty  reef  o'  chairs  with  no  more  than  an  inch 
t'  spare.  '  Steady  as  she  goes  ! '  says  he.  An' 
on  he  went.  'Twas  a  lesson  for  the  best  of  us. 
Take  it  to  yourself,  look  you  !  You  knows  how 
you  goes  in  your  own  room  when  'tis  dark. 
Your  hands  is  out— your  feet  is  vastly  uncertain 
— an'you  stop  an'  shrink  an'  wonder  where  you 
is.  Not  so  ol'  Tom  Tulk  !  '  Port ! '  says  he. 
'  Starboard  a  little  !  Steady  as  she  goes  ! '  An' 
he  went  out  the  kitchen  door  an'  down  the 
path ;  an'  he  rounded  the  house  an'  went  up  the 
steps  t'  the  platform.  '  Stop  her  ! '  says  he.  An' 
then  he  stopped  in  his  tracks  an'  faced  about. 


122      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  Now,  Tumm,'  says  he,  '  there  ought  t'  be  a 
chair  direckly  behind  me.' 

"  '  Maybe  there  is,'  says  I. 

"  *  Anyhow,  there  ought  t'  be,'  says  he. 

"  *  ITone  o'  my  business,'  says  I. 

" '  I  ought  t'  be  able,'  says  he,  *  t'  sit  down 
without  alarm.' 

"  *  You  better  feel  an'  find  out.  Skipper  Tom.' 

" '  Oh,  no  ! '  says  he.  '  A  man  can't  learn 
nothin'  that  way.' 

"  I  reckoned  that  he  didn't  want  7m  t'  tell 
un  nothin'.     An'  so  I  held  my  tongue. 

" '  Accordin'  t'  the  dead  reckonin'  I  been 
runnin'  on,'  says  he,  '  I'd  sit  fair  in  that  chair 
if  I  sot  down? 

"I  kep'  right  on  holdin'  my  tongue.  / 
wasn't  goin'  t'  spoil  the  show. 

" '  It  takes  a  sight  o'  courage,  Tumm,'  says 
he,  scratchin'  his  beard,  '  t'  sit  down  in  this 
parlous  fashion.  But  I'm  goin'  t'  sit  down  jus' 
the  same.  An'  if  I'm  off  the  course  I'll  cer- 
tainly get  bumped.' 

"Then  the  ol'  codger  sot  down  in  his  ol' 
armchair  an'  cocked  his  leg  as  easy  as  you  likes. 

"  *  A  lovely  evenin',  Tumm,'  says  he." 


B 


xvm 

NEW  COUESES 

«  "J^  Y  an'  by  ol'  Tom  says :  '  Wearin'  a 
new  pair  o'  shoes,  isn't  you,  lad  ? ' 
"  I  was. 

"  *  Well,  well ! '  says  he.     *  Dear  man ! ' 

"  ^  ISTothin'  wonderful  in  that,'  says  I. 

"  *  'Tis  not  wonderful  that  you're  wearin'  new 
shoes,'  says  he;  'but  'tis  a  wonderful  thing 
that  I  knows  it.' 

"  *  'Tis  a  simple  thing ! ' 

"  *  I  can't  see  your  shoes.' 

"  '  Sure,  no,'  says  I ;  *  but  'twas  no  trick  for 
you  t'  tell  that  my  shoes  is  new.  You  heard 
un  squeak.' 

"'True  enough,'  says  he.  'That's  how  I 
knowed.     Still  an'  all  'tis  a  wonderful  thing.' 

" '  Child's  play.  Skipper  Tom  ! ' 

" '  Not  at  all ! '  says  he.     '  'Tis  a  wonderful 

thing  that  I  can  sit  here  with  my  eyes  bandaged 

an'  know  without  your  tellin'  me  that  you  got 

on  a  new  pair  o'  shoes.     Can't  you  understand 

that,  Tumm  ? ' 

123 


124      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

" '  I'm  free  t'  say,'  says  I,  *  that  I'm  not  as- 
tonished.    You  heard  my  new  shoes  squeak.' 

"  '  Jus'  so,'  says  he.  *  My  eyes  didn't  tell  me 
that  your  shoes  is  new.  My  ears  told  me.  An' 
if  my  ears ,  can  tell  me  that  much  tliey  can  tell 
me  more.  That's  the  p'int,  lad  !  My  ears  will 
make  good  servants  if  I  loses  my  sight  alto- 
gether. I'm  goin'  t'  start  right  away  an'  train 
mj  ears.' 

"  *  They'll  never  answer  for  eyes.' 

"  *  I'm  an  old  man,'  says  he.  *  All  my  life 
long  I've  lived  with  my  ears.  An'  I've  never 
got  out  o'  them  anything  like  the  labour  they're 
able  t'  do.  But  I'm  goin' t'  begin  now.  You 
sit  still,  Tumm,  an'  I'll  find  out  what  my  ears 
is  good  for.' 

"  We  sot  there  for  a  spell  without  sayin'  a 
word.  Tom  Tulk  jus'  listened.  It  seemed  t' 
me  that  ears  would  not  serve  un  very  well. 
'Twas  easy  enough  for  the  ol'  feller  t'  hear  my 
shoes  squeak  an'  argue  that  they  was  new  ;  but 
for  un  to  undertake  t'  listen  t'  the  harbour 
sounds  an'  tell  what  was  goin'  on  was  quite  an- 
other matter.  'Twas  comin'  on  evenin'.  An' 
'twas  very  quiet  in  harbour.     I  looked  about. 


NEW  COURSES  125 

An'  the  only  stir  I  could  see  was  ol'  Jimmie 
Lot  comin'  in  from  the  grounds  in  his  punt. 
He  was  within  the  tickle  an'  was  roundin'  The 
Pancake  t'  pull  to  his  stage-head  an'  land  his 
fish. 

"  *  or  Jimmie  Lot  got  his  load  the  day,'  says 
Tom  Tulk. 

"  *  Ay,'  says  I. 

"Tom  Tulk  laughed. 

"  '  Dear  man  ! '  says  I,  *  how  did  ymi  know 
that  ol'  Jimmie  Lot  was  pullin'  across  the  har- 
bour with  a  load  o'  fish  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  my  ears  told  me,'  says  Skipper  Tom. 
*I  can  hear  Jimmie's  oars  squeak  against  the 
thole-pins.  An'  I  happen  t'  know  the  way  that 
Jimmie  rows.  Jimmie  an'  me  is  both  old  men. 
I've  watched  Jimmie  pull  from  the  tickle  to  his 
own  stage  these  many  years.  I've  watched  un 
come  in  with  nar  a  fish,  an'  I've  watched  un 
come  in  loaded.  He  pulls  in  a  certain  way 
when  he've  got  a  load  o'  fish  ;  an'  he  pulls  in 
another  when  he  comes  in  empty.  Every  time 
I've  watched  un  I've  heard  un  too  ;  but  I  never 
afore  noticed  that  I  had  heard  un.  Does  you 
understand  ?  I  knowed  all  the  time — without 
ever  afore  knowin'  that  I  knowed — just  what 


126      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

went  on  with  the  sound  that  Jimmie  was 
makin'.  An'  as  I  was  sittin'  here  listenin'  I 
cotched  ear  o'  the  squeak  o'  Jimmie's  oars. 
An'  the  minute  I  heard  that  particular  kind  o' 
noise  I  knowed  that  Jimmie  Lot  was  comin' 
across  the  harbour  jus'  as  well  as  if  I  had  looked 
an'  seed.  Why,  Tumm,  I  could  see  Jimmie 
Lot  comin'  across  the  harbour  with  a  load  o' 
fish!' 

"  '  You  struck  it  right,  Skipper  Tom,'  says  I. 
*  That's  just  what  Jimmie's  doin'.' 

"*  Hist! 'says  Tom. 

"  We  hearkened. 

"  *  Well,'  says  I,  *  what  d'ye  hear  now  ? '  I 
could  hear  nothin'  at  all  meself  that  meant  any- 
thing t'  me. 

"*Dear  man!'  says  Tom.  'Well,  well! 
That's  wonderful.  But  it's  right.  An'  I 
knows  it.'  An'  then  he  begun  t'  laugh. 
*Tumm,'  he  chuckled,  'you  got  two  eyes  in 
your  head,  isn't  you  ? ' 

"  '  Pair  o'  binoculars,  sir.' 

"  *  Yery  good,'  says  he.  '  I'll  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion.    Is  Shot-Bag  Rock  breakin'  ? ' 

"'How  should  I  know?' 

"  '  You  got  eyes,  isn't  you  ? ' 


NEW  COURSES  127 

"  *  Ay,  sure  !  But  Shot-Bag  Eock  can't  be 
seed  from  here.' 

" '  Ah-ha,  Tumm ! '  says  he ;  *  a  man  don't 
need  t'  see  Shot-Bag  Eock  t'  be  able  t'  tell 
whether  the  sea  is  breakin'  there  the  day  or  not. 
Isn't  you  got  ears  ? ' 

" '  Is^o  mortal  ears  can  hear  Shot-Bag  Eock 
from  here.' 

"  '  Jus'  so,'  says  he.  *  That's  right.  But  a 
man  don't  need  t'  hear  Shot-Bag  Eock  t'  know 
that  Shot-Bag  Eock  is  breakin'.  Now,  Tumm,' 
says  he,  *  no  sound  o'  the  sea  can  be  heard  where 
we  sits  here  on  my  platform.  An'  yet  I  knows 
for  myself  that  there's  a  high  sea  runnin'  out- 
side an'  that  Shot-Bag  Eock  is  spoutin'  like  a 
fountain.' 

"  *  But  how.  Skipper  Tom  ? ' 
"  *  Jus'  by  puttin'  two  an'  two  together.' 
" '  Well,'  says  I,  '  I  can't  fathom  it.' 
"  *  Then,'  says  he,  '  I'll  tell  you.     'Tis  a  very 
simple  thing.     In   my  young  days  I  used  t' 
hook-an'-line  oflp  Shot-Bag  Eock.     Many's  the 
day   I've  spent  there  in  quiet  seas  an'  rough 
ones.    An'  at  the  close  of  every  day  I  pulled 
in  t'  harbour.     Well,  now,  as  I  pulled  into  my 
own  little  cove  I  rounded  that  little  point  down 


128      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

below.  Hark!  Can't  you  hear  the  harbour 
water  wash  that  little  point  ?  Well,  in  a  high 
sea,  rollin'  in  from  the  nor'east,  a  swell  conies 
through  the  tickle  an'  breaks  there.  'Tis  a 
quiet  evenin'.  There's  no  wind-lop  on  the  har- 
bour. Yet  that  little  point  is  breakin'.  An'  so 
I  knows  that  there  is  a  high  enough  sea  runnin' 
outside  t'  break  on  Shot-Bag  Kock.  An'  I 
knows  it  jus'  by  hearin'  what's  handy  an'  put- 
tin'  two  an'  two  together.' 

"  01'  Jimmie  Lot  was  landin'  at  his  stage- 
head.     *  Ahoy,  Skipper  Jimmie  ! '  I  sung  out. 

*  Much  sea  outside  ? ' 

"  *  Big  sea  outside,'  says  Jimmie.     '  01'  Shot- 
Bag's  spoutin'.' 

"*Ah-ha,   Tumm!'     Tom    Tulk   chuckled. 

*  There  you  got  it !  An'  all  jus'  by  puttin'  two 
an'  two  together.  Eyes  isn't  everything.  An' 
ears  isn't  so  much  until  they're  trained  t'  do 
their  work  without  shirkin'.  When  a  man  can 
listen  t'  what's  handy  an'  know  what's  goin'  on 
beyond,  he'll  do  very  well  with  his  ears,  I'll  be 
bound !  If  my  sight  ever  does  go  back  on  me, 
Tumm,  I'll  have  a  wonderful  good  time  gettin' 
along  in  other  ways.' 

"  The  ol'  codger  was  delighted." 


XIX 

HAESH  FOETUNE 

«  1^  T"  O  trouble  t'  talk,"  Tumm  went  on ; 
I  ^^     "  but  'tis  frequently  trouble  enough 

•^  ^  for  a  man  t'  do  what  he  says  he'll 
do.  All  very  well  for  a  man  t'  say  what  he'll 
do  in  a  gale  o'  wind.  Eeef  ?  Oh,  no !  No 
reefs  for  he !  Never  sails  with  more  than  one 
reef  anyhow  !  But  when  the  wind  falls  down 
like  liquid  lead  'tis  a  different  matter  entirely. 
An'  so  too  with  Trouble :  there's  many  a  man 
will  face  Trouble  with  a  blithe  face  an'  merry 
words  an'  then  have  his  heart  fail  when  Trouble 
comes  down  like  a  wild  nor'easter  in  the  fall  o' 
the  year.  Tom  Tulk  was  no  exception.  When 
he  took  off  his  bandage  an'  found  that  he  was 
gone  near  stone  blind  in  his  old  age  he  was 
downcast  for  a  time.  An'  'twas  so  I  found  un 
one  night — sittin'  downcast  in  the  sunset  light 
with  his  gray  old  face  in  his  hands. 

" '  Near  blind,  Tumm,'  says  he.     *  Oh,  near 

blind ! ' 

129 


I30      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  I'm  sorry,  sir.' 

" '  Dear  God  ! '  says  he. 

"  'Twas  a  pitiful  thing ! 

"  *  Can't  see  much  more  than  an  inch  or  two,' 
says  he.  *  But  I  'low  I'll  improve  a  bit,  lad. 
Oh,  I'll  improve ! ' 

" '  Still  an'  all,  sir,    I'm  wonderful  sorry.' 

"  He  lifted  his  face  from  his  hands  an'  showed 
me  his  blood-red  eyes.  'Harsh  fortune,'  says 
he,  *  an'  bitter  t'  the  taste.  'Twould  screw  the 
mouth  of  a  saint.' 

"  '  Come  what  will,'  says  I,  '  you'll  make  the 
best  of  it.' 

"  He  begun  t'  chuckle.  '  Ever  hear  tell  o'  ol' 
Tom  Swat — the  whalin'  skipper  o'  Jewel  Is- 
land ? '  says  he.  '  I  used  t'  hear  the  tale  in  my 
youth.  'Twas  said  that  ol'  Tom  Swat  o'  Jewel 
Island  had  so  encouraged  his  nose  that  he  could 
smell  out  the  whales  he  was  after  off  the  Green- 
land coast.  Ah-ha,  Tumm !  What  d'ye  think 
o'  that  ?  Ha,  ha !  An'  so  maybe  I  can  teach 
my  ears  t'  give  good  service  in  many  a  hard 
case  t'  come.'  An'  then  ol'  Tom  Tulk  thro  wed 
back  his  head  an'  laughed  like  a  lad. 

"  T'  be  sure,  when  the  ol'  man  begun  t'  feel 


HARSH  FORTUNE  131 

his  way  over  the  harbour  roads,  they  called  un 
Blind  Tom  Tulk.  An'  that  was  the  name  he 
went  by  forever  after.  Blind  Tom  Tulk  o' 
Eickity  Tickle.  But  he  wasn't  so  blind  as  they 
named  un.  He  could  see  jus'  about  half-way 
where  he  was  bound  for — which  was  far  enough 
for  he.  'Twas  never  said  by  a  Eickity  Tickle 
man  that  Blind  Tom  Tulk  couldn't  get  where  he 
was  goin'  in  plenty  o'  time  t'  be  there.  An'  he 
didn't  give  up  the  Seventh  Son.  Not  he !  *  I'll 
manage,'  says  he,  '  by  makin'  the  best  of  a  bad 
job.'  For  a  season — an'  for  one  season  only — 
he  was  not  on  the  Labrador.  'Afore  I  goes 
down  again,'  says  he,  *  I  must  learn  t'  make  the 
best  o'  the  eyes  I  got  left  or  find  new  ways  o* 
gettin'  about.  An'  so  I'll  stay  t'  home  this 
season  an'  learn  my  lessons.'  An'  he  learned 
his  lessons  well:  down  north  he  went  next 
year — an'  many  a  year  thereafter. 

"  'Twas  a  marvel  t'  the  coast  how  the  ol' 
feller  got  the  Seventh  Son  down  an'  back. 

"  *  Bein'  half  blind,'  says  he,  *  I  can  see  better 
than  ever  afore.' 

"'Ay,  Tom?' 

"*I've  growed  in  the  knowledge  0'  small 
things.' 


132      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  ^But  that's  tellin'  nothin',  Tom.' 

"*For  one  thing,'  says  he,  *I've  got  ac- 
quainted with  the  tip  o'  me  own  nose.' 

"  *  What's  a  nose  to  a  Labrador  skipper  ? ' 

"  *  !N'ose ! '  says  Tom.  '  I  don't  need  no  nose. 
Dear  man,  I  could  find  the  JS^orth  Pole  with 
the  eyes  I  got ! ' 

"'But  Aoi/;,  Tom?' 

"'Look  you!'  says  he.  'Can  I  go  as  fur 
as  I  can  see  ? ' 

" '  Ay.' 

"  <  Yery  good  ! '  says  he.  '  When  I  go  as  fur 
as  I  can  see,  I  can  see  jus'  as  fur  furder.' 

"  By  this  time  ol'  Tom  was  goin'  on  eighty. 
I  mind  well  the  looks  of  un.  He  was  an  odd 
ol'  codger  with  a  lean  gray  beard  an'  blinkin' 
white  eyes — peerin'  out  his  way  over  the  roads 
o'  harbour  when  he  wasn't  off  fishin'  the  Labra- 
dor. He  was  humped  a  bit,  too  ;  an'  his  neck 
was  stretched,  an'  his  head  hung  low  an'  loose, 
all  with  huntin'  his  path. 

"  I  used  t'  think  that  havin'  no  eyes  t'  speak 
of  he  found  his  way  like  a  huskie  dog. 

"  No  staff,  mark  you ! 

"  '  Staff  ?  '  says  he ;  '  a  staff's  for  a  ol'  feller 


HARSH  FORTUNE  133 

with  rheumatics.  A  hale  an'  hearty  codger 
like  me  don't  need  no  staff  t'  get  about  with ! ' 

"  An'  he  would  go  fast  enough,  on  a  shaky- 
little  toddle,  wastin'  no  steps  by  the  way,  with 
his  head  waggin',  his  eyes  poppin'  out,  an'  his 
beard  forgin'  on  like  a  bowsprit. 

"  *  Jus'  a  matter  o'  knowin'  how,'  says  he. 

"I  never  seed  un  dodge  or  dawdle  on  the 
roads :  'twas  make  a  start  an'  get  there  by 
short  cuts  with  he ;  an'  he  knowed  the  short 
cuts  o'  Kickity  Tickle — an'  the  inshore  courses 
o'  the  Labrador — so  well  as  any  man  with  real 
eyes  in  his  head. 

"  *  Short  allowance  o'  sight,'  says  he,  *  so  I 
got  t'  know  my  way.' 

"Down  the  hill  he  would  come  from  his 
cottage  by  Blow-Me,  with  his  nose  t'  the 
ground,  like  a  dog  on  an  errand ;  an'  he  would 
have  a  wink  an'  a  grin  for  whatever  an'  all 
that  come  by. 

"  *  I'm  a  bit  hard  o'  seein','  says  he ;  *  but  I 
got  a  smile  that  runs  free.' 

"  He  would  never  need  t'  see  you  t'  greet 
you. 

" '  Hi,  there,  Tumm ! '  says  he.  *  Fine  even- 
in',  lad.' 


134      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  Skipper  Tom,  sir/  says  I,  *  how  did  you 
know  'twas  I  on  the  road  ?  ' 

"  *  Isn't  man,  maid,  lad  nor  dog  in  this  har- 
bour,' says  he,  *  whose  step  I  don't  know.  Skip- 
per Bill's  lad  doin'  well  ? ' 

"*How'd  you  know  I  was  t'  Charlie 
Luff's?' 

"  *  Heard  the  gate  click — an'  I  knows  that 
click.  You'll  find  Bessie  Tot  gone  t'  Clear- 
water Well.  I  heard  she  close  the  kitchen  door 
as  I  passed  by.' 

"  *  'Tis  fair  uncanny  ! '  cries  I. 

" '  Sure,  no,'  says  he  ;  *  you're  forever  mawk- 
in'  after  Bessie  Tot  when  her  father's  abroad — 
an'  my  ears  have  told  me  that  her  father  has 
jus'  gone  t'  prayer-meetin'.' 

"^Ay,  but ' 

" '  Hut ! '  says  he  ;  '  you'd  a  lover's  footfall 
comin'  up  the  hill.     Toe  hurt  ? ' 

"  *  Which  toe  ? '  says  I. 

"  *  I'm  thinkin'  'twould  be  the  right,'  says  he. 
*You  stubbed  it  on  the  red  stone  by  the 
Needle.     I  heard  you.' 

"  *  Isn't  no  stone  there,'  says  I,  t'  tease  un. 

" '  Ah-ha  ! '  he  chuckled.  *  Isn't  no  stone 
there,   eh  ?    Why,  Tumm,  I  stubbed  my   toe 


HARSH  FORTUNE  135 

there  once.  An'  a  man  with  fried  eyes  doesn't 
forget  a  thing  like  that.  I  tells  you,  Tumm,  a 
man  never  knows  what  the  world  really  looks 
like  afore  he  goes  half  blind.' 

"  *  All  well  an'  good,'  says  I,  *  but  I'd  not 
give  my  sight  for  the  knowledge.' 

" '  J^or  nobody  else,'  says  Tom. 

"  'Twas  true. 

" '  Anyhow,'  says  he,  *  afore  I  went  half 
blind  I  never  seed  half  as  much  as  I  sees  now.' " 


XX 

THE  CONCH  HOEN 

"  'A    ■   AWAS  some  years  after  he  had  fried 

I        his  eyes  at  the  ice  that  Tom  Tulk 

made  a  discovery  that  presently 

served  un  well  in  a  case  o'  sore  need.     It  made 

un  famous,  too,  on  this  coast ;  an'  it  all  come 

about  through  the  habit  that  Tom  Tulk  had 

formed  o'  makin'  his  ears  do  all  the  work  they 

was  able  for  an'  o'  teachin'  his  mind  t'  put  two 

an'  two  together.      'Twas  early  summer.     The 

Labrador  fleet  was  fitted  out";  an'  Pinch-a-Penny 

Peter's  vessels,  with  the  Seventh  Son  among  un, 

lay  in  Rickity  Tickle  waitin'  for  a  fair  wind 

down  north.     There  was  nothin'  for  ol'  Tom 

Tulk  t'  do  but  keep  his  patience ;  an' t'  that  end 

he  went  out  on  the  Shot-Bag  grounds  in  the 

punt  with  me  t'   hook-an'-line  what  fish  we 

could  catch.     There  was  no  wind :  'twas  a  still, 

clear,  clean  day.     An'  by  an'  by  evenin'  come 

on,  an'  us  put  about  an'  pulled  for  harbour. 

'Twas  only  dawdlin'  along,  in  love  with  the 

quiet  an'  colour  o'  the  world;  there  was  no 
136 


THE  CONCH  HORN  137 

haste  t'  make  the  tickle  t'  harbour.  An'  by 
an'  by  we  come  within  hail  o'  ol'  Jimmie  Lot, 
puUin'  in  from  the  Mad  Mull  rocks. 

"  I  hailed  ol'  Jimmie.  '  What  luck,  Skipper 
Jimmie  ? '  I  sung  out. 

"I  don't  mind  what  Skipper  Jimmie  an- 
swered. But  I  do  mind — an'  I'll  never  forget 
it — the  look  that  all  at  once  spread  over  Blind 
Tom  Tulk's  face.  'Twas  that  of  amazement — 
an'  o'  triumph,  too. 

"  ^  Sing  out  again ! '  says  he. 

"*What  you  so  excited  about,  Skipper 
Tom?' 

"  *  Sing  out  again ! '  says  he. 

"  An'  so  I  sung  out  once  more :  '  What  luck, 
Skipper  Jimmie  ? ' 

"  *  Hark ! '  says  Tom.     ^  Did  you  hear  ? ' 

" '  He  says,  sir,'  says  I, '  that  there's  nar  a 
fish  t'  be  had.' 

"'That  all?' 

"'All /heard.' 

"'Ah-ha,  Tumm!  Much  more  than  that 
happened.  Why,  lad,  a  wonderful  thing  hap- 
pened ! ' 

"  *  No,  sir,'  says  I.  '  Is  you  goin'  mad  ?  Nar 
another  thing  at  all  happened.' 


138      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  '  Ah-ha  ! '  he  chuckled.  '  Well,  well !  Dear 
man !  JSTothin'  more  happened  ?  Ah-ha ! 
Why,  Tumm,  lad,  I  got  an  idea.  'Tis  a 
wonderful  idea.  N'obody  ever  thought  of  it 
afore.  An'  I  'low  I'll  be  able  t'  use  it  t'  good 
purpose  in  my  business  afore  very  long.  Man, 
this  has  been  a  great  day  for  Blind  Tom  Tulk  ! 
Tom  Tulk  will  show  un  how  t'  make  the  best  of 
a  bad  job.    I^ow,  you  mark  me  I ' 

" '  What  is  it.  Skipper  Tom  ? ' 

"  *  Oh,  nothin'  much,'  says  he.  '  This  world  is 
full  o'  little  voices  for  the  blind.' 

"  *  What  voices,  sir  ? ' 

" '  Well,'  says  he,  '  the  breakers  haves  each 
its  own  voice.     I  found  that  out  long  ago.' 

" '  But  there's  no  sea  on  to-day.  You've 
heard  no  breaker  the  day  long.' 

"  '  There's  many  other  little  voices,'  says  he. 

"  An'  he  would  tell  me  no  more.  I  plagued 
un  all  the  way  t'  the  tickle.  But  he  would 
tell  me  nothin'  at  all.  I  had  t'  satisfy  curiosity 
with  wonder.  An'  I  wondered — an'  wondered 
— but  could  not  fathom  the  delight  o'  Tom 
Tulk  in  the  new  idea  he  had.  'Twas  not  until 
afterwards — when  ol'  Tom  Tulk  was  in  the 
sorest  need  of  his  life — that  I  come  t'  know 


THE    MYSTERY    OF   TOM    TULK,    HIS   EYES  BANDAGED,    BLOWING 
ON   A   conch-horn"- 


THE  CONCH  HORN  139 

what  had  really  happened  when  I  sung  out  t' 
oF  Jimmie  Lot  t'  know  how  the  fish  was  run- 
nin'  off  Mad  Mull.  An'  then  it  was  perfectly 
clear. 

"  Next  day  the  folk  o'  Eiokity  Tickle  thought 
that  oF  Tom  Tulk  had  gone  clean  out  of  his 
senses.  An'  I  thought  so,  too.  An'  no 
wonder !  The  mystery  of  ol'  Tom  Tulk,  with 
his  eyes  bandaged,  blowin'  on  a  conch  horn, 
was  quite  enough  t'  make  queer  talk.  There 
was  no  wind ;  the  Labrador  vessels  was  still 
held  in  harbour.  An'  just  at  dawn,  afore  I 
had  the  sleep  washed  out  o'  my  eyes,  Tom 
Tulk  came  shufflin'  up  the  path  t'  the  kitchen 
door. 

"  ^  Tumm,  lad,'  says  he,  *  go  fetch  the  bait- 
skiff  horn.' 

"  *  Name  o'  wonder  ! '  says  I.     *  What  for  ?  ' 

" '  Ah-ha ! '  says  he.  '  I  wants  t'  try  a  little 
experiment  with  my  ears.  I'll  puzzle  you 
sorely  afore  tliia  day  dies.' 

"  Well,  I  went  down  t'  Jimmie  Lot's  stage, 
where  the  bait-skiff  horn  was  kept,  an'  fetched 
it  back.  'Twas  a  conch  shell,  with  a  hole  in  it : 
so  that  if  a  man  knowed  how  t'  use  lips  an' 


I40      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

lungs  on  it  he  could  blow  a  blast  that  would 
wake  the  harbour.  In  the  caplin  season,  when 
they  uses  them  little  fish  for  bait,  the  folk  take 
turns  at  mannin'  the  skiif.  'Tis  the  bait-skiff 
conch  that  calls  un  t'  put  out ;  an'  'tis  the  bait- 
skiff  conch  that  warns  the  harbour  that  the  skiff 
is  back  with  the  bait. 

"  *  There  ! '  says  I.     '  :N'ow  what  ? ' 

"  '  Queer  doin's  now,'  he  chuckled.  *  We'll 
go  offshore  in  the  punt.' 

" '  What  for.  Skipper  Tom  ? ' 

"  '  Never  you  mind,'  says  he.  '  No  fishin', 
anyhow.' 

"  I  pulled  un  through  the  tickle  an'  out  t'  the 
deep  water  beyond  the  last  reefs  an'  shallows. 
When  we  come  t'  the  point  where  the  schooners 
turn  into  the  channel  Tom  Tulk  bade  me  leave 
off  rowin'  an'  sit  still.  Then  he  blowed  a  blast 
on  the  conch  horn  an'  listened.  Nothin'  hap- 
pened. I  pulled  a  few  fathoms.  Tom  Tulk 
tried  again.  JSTothin'  happened  that  I  could 
tell ;  but  ol'  Tom  grinned  as  if  he  had  found 
what  he  was  lookin'  for.  An'  so  it  went  on  all 
mornin'  long — myself  pullin'  here  an'  there  as 
I  was  told,  an'  ol'  Tom  bio  win'  blasts  on  the 
bait-skiff  conch  an'  then  cockin'  his  head  like  a 


THE  CONCH  HORN  141 

robin  redbreast.  By  this  time  there  was  some 
folk  gathered  on  the  Lookout  t'  see  the  queer 
sight.  But  Tom  was  not  bothered  at  all.  I 
doubt  that  he  knowed  he  was  makin'  such  an 
almighty  fool  of  hisself  that  the  Eickity 
Tickle  folk  was  leavin'  their  work  t'  see  the 
show. 

"  *  Yery  good,  Tumm,'  says  he,  at  last.  *  Now 
pull  out  again.' 

"  I  pulled  out  t'  the  point  where  ol'  Tom  had 
first  blowed  the  horn.  An'  then  the  ol'  codger 
took  out  a  clean  kerchief  an'  bandaged  his  eyes. 
Once  more  the  mad  performance !  I  pulled  an' 
ol'  Tom  blowed.  '  Port ! '  says  he.  An' '  Star- 
board a  little  ! '  an'  *  Steady  as  she  goes  ! '  jus' 
like  a  pilot.  An'  we  come  nearer  an'  nearer  t' 
the  shore.  I  made  sure  that  the  ol'  man  would 
go  ashore  on  All-in-the-Way.  But  he  not  only 
dodged  All-in- the-Way  but  dodged  Soapy  Eeef 
an'  Shag  Rock  as  well.  'Twas  slow  gettin'  along. 
Sometimes  ol'  Tom  would  stop  an'  think.  An' 
sometimes  he  would  go  right  on  with  never  a 
pause.  When  he  stopped  he  would  be  troubled ; 
but  when  his  course  was  fast  he  would  grin  like 
a  lad  with  a  new  watch.  Blow,  blow,  blow ! 
Long  blasts  an'  short  ones !    'Twas  such  a  mys- 


142      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

tery  that  by  an'  by  I  was  filled  with  disgust 
because  I  could  not  fathom  it. 

" '  Skipper  Tom,'  says  I,  '  you  simply  got  t' 
tell  me.' 

"  *  No,  I  won't ! '  says  he. 

"  *  Dear  man,'  says  I,  *  I'll  never  be  able  t' 
sleep  until  I  knows.' 

"  '  I've  no  wish  t'  trouble  you,'  says  he.  '  But 
I'll  tell  you  never  a  word  until  I  knows  that 
this  small  experiment  with  my  ears  has  suc- 
ceeded.' 

"  Nor  would  he  tell  me.  An'  next  day  he 
took  the  Seventh  Son  down  the  Labrador  for 
his  season's  fishin'." 


XXI 

GOOD  SERVANTS 

"fTT^'  BE  sure  Blind  Tom  Tulk  got  older 
I  an'  older,  an'  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter 
"^  got  older,  too  ;  but  while  Blind  Tom 
Tulk  kep'  good-humour  for  bedfellow,  Pinch-a- 
Penny  Peter,  what  with  bad  debts  an'  fish 
worries,  grew  wrinkled  an'  crabbed.  Came, 
then,  I  mind,  the  Lean  Year  o'  Seven.  It  near 
keeled  Pinch-a-Penny  over.  An'  as  for  the 
folk  o'  Rickity  Tickle,  who  must  go  to  the  ol' 
man  for  food,  'twas  like  hangin'  t'  beg  a  barrel 
o'  flour  an'  a  gallon  o'  sweetness.  T'  cheer 
Pinch-a-Penny  up,  however,  there  was  a  change 
in  politics  t'  St.  John's.  The  Opposition  got  in 
on  the  wind  o'  famine ;  an'  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter, 
bein'  with  the  gov'ment  at  last,  'lowed  he'd 
have  the  mail-boat  call  at  Rickity  Tickle  or 
he'd  know  the  reason  why. 

"  She  come.     'Twas  the  Scotia :   ol'  Cap'n 
Hand,  master.    Rickity  Tickle  was  thereafter 
a  regular  port  o'  call.     Ay,  the  Scotia  called — 
143 


144      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

when  she  could !  But  'tis  wild  waters  here- 
abouts, with  naughty  reefs  an'  no  lights,  an' 
Cap'n  Hand  would  never  fetch  the  Scotia  in  of 
a  dark  or  foggy  time.  So  we  had  somewhat 
less  at  Rickity  Tickle  than  a  decent  allowance 
o'  gov'ment  attention — which  is  worse  than 
none  at  all. 

" '  Wisht  I  had  that  teakettle,'  says  Blind 
Tom  Tulk. 

"  '  You ! '  says  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter. 

" '  Isn't  no  fog  could  stop  me  gettin'  about,' 
says  Tom. 

"  *  Hut ! ' 

"  '/got  ears! ' 

" '  So's  an  ass,'  says  Peter ;  *  got  more  ears  'n 
anything.' 

"It  hurt  Tom  Tulk's  feelin's.  'Skipper 
Peter,'  says  he,  '  you  leave  my  ears  alone.  I'm 
fond  of  un.' 

"  '  Have  done,  ye  noddie  ! ' 

"  *  They're  good  servants,'  says  Tom.  '  I  likes 
my  ears.' 

" '  Ay  ;  t'  catch  harbour  gossip.' 

"  Tom  Tulk  got  up.  *  Anyhow,'  says  he,  the 
tears  of  old  age  in  his  fried  eyes,  '  eyes  isn't  no 
good  of  a  foggy  night ! ' 


GOOD  SERVANTS  145 

"  'Twas  early  in  the  season,  then :  long  afore 
the  Labrador  fleet  was  fitted  out — foggy 
weather  an'  the  dark  o'  the  moon.  But  there 
come  a  fine  blue  spurt  o'  days,  with  the  Scotia 
due  on  her  fortnightly  call.  She  come  bowlin' 
in  through  the  narrows ;  but  she  had  no  sooner 
landed  her  mail  than  she  put  out  t'  sea  in  haste, 
with  Blind  Tom  Tulk  on  the  bridge  along  with 
Cap'n  Hand. 

" '  WeU,  well ! '  thinks  we.  '  What  now ! ' 
"  Then  they  was  another  mad  performance  off- 
shore. It  brought  Kickity  Tickle  t'  the  cliffs  o' 
Blow-Me  t'  watch  the  sight.  Here  went  the 
Scotia  !  There  she  went !  An'  she  kep'  backin' 
an'  fillin'  an'  fair  blowin'  her  head  off.  There 
was  no  end  t'  her  f  ussin'  about  an'  no  end  t'  the 
toot  of  her  whistle.  It  seemed  t'  we,  on  the 
cliffs,  by  an'  by,  that  she  had  churned  every 
drop  o'  water  between  the  heads  o'  the  bay. 
An'  then,  four  times,  she  put  offshore,  an' 
come  forgin'  back  t'  the  narrows  again,  dodgin' 
the  reefs  at  full  speed,  her  whistle  barkin'  from 
time  t'  time,  without  reason  that  any  could  see. 
'Twas  fallin'  dusk  when  she  come  in  for  the 
last  time  an'  landed  Tom  Tulk.  But  nobody 
was  the  wiser  when  Tom  come  ashore:    for 


146      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

Cap'n  Hand  didn't  come  with  un,  an'  Blind 
Tom  Tulk  said  never  a  word,  whatever  was  said 
t'he. 

"  'Twas  a  large  mystery.  But  there  was 
honour  in  it,  somewhere,  for  ol'  Tom  Tulk. 
Lyin'  alongside  the  Scotia  in  my  punt,  t'  pick 
Tom  up,  as  I  had  promised,  I  seed  Cap'n  Hand 
lay  a  paw  on  the  ol'  man's  shoulder,  an'  I  heard 
Cap'n  Hand  speak  words  in  the  ol'  man's  ear, 
which  was  words  o'  praise,  I  knowed  by  the 
way  that  Tom  was  grinnin'  when  he  come 
overside. 

"'What  you  been  doin'.  Skipper  Tom?' 
says  I. 

" '  Oh,'  says  he,  '  I  jus'  been  givin'  ol'  Cap'n 
Hand's  ears  a  li'l'  lesson  in  hearin'.' 

"  An'  no  more ! " 


XXII 

PAST  HIS  LABOUE 

"  "TT  'VE  no  blame  for  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  in 
I  these  days.  He  was  ill  nicknamed  t'  the 
best  o'  my  knowledge ;  an'  he  was  now 
growed  old  for  his  burdens.  With  the  Lean 
Year  o'  Seven  t'  weather,  he'd  been  hard 
pressed  for  ease  o'  mind.  'Twas  a  famine,  in- 
deed— as  my  belly  remembers.  But  he  had 
managed  somehow  t'  get  Kickity  Tickle  t'  the 
spring  o'  the  year  with  no  deaths  from  star- 
vation ;  an'  he  was  now  hard  put  to  it  t'  stave 
off  his  creditors  at  St.  John's  an'  outfit  the  hook- 
an'-line  men  an'  Labrador  schooners  for  the  sea- 
son upon  us.  I  mind  well  the  time  when  Blind 
Tom  Tulk  come  t'  the  office  for  his  berth  on 
the  Seventh  Son.  'Twas  close  o'  day.  But 
there  was  light  enough  left  for  labour — a  black 
sky  far  off  at  sea  beyond  the  narrows  of  our 
harbour,  with  the  red  glory  o'  the  sun  behind. 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  was  hunched  up  on  a 
high  stool  at  the  big  desk  by  the  window,  pen 
put  aside.    He  was  a  weazened  little  runt — 
147 


148      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

clean  shaven  an'  gray  eyed.  I  could  see  from 
the  shop  that  he  was  lookin'  in  a  muse  o' 
trouble  at  the  tickle  waters  where  his  schooners 
lay  fittin'  out.  An'  I  mind  thinkin'  that  he  was 
a  old,  old  man,  seein'  less  o'  the  schooners  below 
than  o'  the  sunset  light  at  sea,  an'  hearin'  never 
a  word  at  all  o'  hammer  an'  saw,  nor  a  word 
o'  the  blithe  young  song  o'  little  Billy  Luff, 
though  the  window  was  open  t'  the  soft  spring 
wind. 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  turned  about  on  the  stool 
when  Blind  Tom  Tulk  come  in. 

"* Well,  Tom? 'says he. 

"  ^  Feel  o'  fog  in  the  air,'  says  Tom. 

" '  Ay,  Tom,'  says  Peter ;  *  they's  a  mist 
oomin'  over  the  sun.' 

"  '  A  red  world,  the  night,'  says  Tom. 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  looked  out  o'  the  window. 
'Twas  a  red  world  even  then.  There  was  a 
blood-red  sea  an'  sky  beyond  the  tickle  rocks. 
*  An'  no  mail-boat,'  says  Peter. 

"  *  Oh,  ay,'  says  Tom ;  '  they'll  be  a  mail-boat 
the  night.' 

" '  Fog's  down,  Tom  :  a  black  night  fallin'.' 

"  *  Ay,'  says  Tom ;  '  but  I've  put  a  pair  o' 
ears  on  that  tin  kettle.' 


PAST  HIS  LABOUR  149 

" '  What  you  mean,  Tom  ? ' 

"  *  What  I  says,  Peter.  I  put  a  couple  o' 
good  ears  on  that  tin  kettle.' 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  turned  about,  again,  with  a 
little  jerk  o'  temper  ;  an'  then : 

"  *  Well,  Tom  ?  '  says  he. 

"  *  I  'lowed  I'd  drop  in,  Peter,'  says  Tom,  *  an' 
tell  you  I'd  take  the  Seventh  Son  north  again  as 
usual.' 

"*Ay?' 

" '  I'm  fit  an'  able  as  ever,'  says  Tom,  *  an' 
I've  no  disgust  with  labour.  Sure,  I'm  the 
toughest  ol'  codger  the  coast  ever  knowed  I ' 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  drummed  on  the  desk. 

"  *  Thumb-an'-Finger  o'  Pinch-Me  Head,'  says 
Tom  :  *  they'll  be  fish  a-plenty  on  the  Harbour- 
less  Shore  this  season.' 

"  Peter  looked  out  o'  the  window,  his  chin  in 
his  hands.  They  was  knockin'  off,  down  be- 
low ;  an'  little  Billy's  song  was  still,  an'  there 
wasn't  no  sound  o'  hammer  an'  saw.  The  room 
was  filled  with  red  shadows :  a  red  world  be- 
yond— a  hot  glare  over  the  sea  an'  a  crimson 
mist  on  the  hills. 

"  '  Peter ! '  says  Tom. 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  didn't  answer. 


I50      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

" '  Isn't  you  there,  Peter  ? ' 

" '  Ay,  Tom/ 

"  *  I — I — didn't  hear  nothin','  says  Tom ; '  an' 
— an' — my  eyes ' 

"'Ay,  Tom?' 

"  *  Dear  God  ! '  says  Tom.  *  What  you  mean? 
Can't  I  have  the  Seventh  Son  no  more  ? ' 

"  '  I  wisht  I  was  sure  o'  your  eyes.' 

"  *  I'm  not  past  me  labour,  Peter ! ' 

" '  We're  both  old  men,  Tom.' 

" '  I'm  fit  an'  able  ! ' 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  dropped  the  words  one  by 
one ;  an'  they  come  down  like  clods  on  a  coffin : 

"  *  Business — is — business  ! ' 

"  '  Ay,  Peter,'  says  Tom,  *  but  what'll  I  do 
now  f ' 

"  *  Take  your  rest,  Tom.' 

"  'I  isn't  able,'  says  BHnd  Tom  Tulk,  '  with 
sound  labour  left  in  me  ! ' 

"  No  fuss  at  all :  no  more  than  jus'  that. 
Whether  past  his  labour  or  not,  'twas  over  with 
Blind  Tom  Tulk.  He  was  a  leaf  in  the  frost, 
now,  with  a  grip  on  the  branch,  maybe,  but 
soon  t'  fall  into  the  wind.  He  said  good-night 
with  good  cheer,  for  'twas  ever  his  way  t'  be 
kind  ;  an'  I  thought  un  a  fine  brave  figure  of  a 


PAST  HIS  LABOUR  151 

Newf' un'lander — an  old,  old  man,  yet  cravin' 
his  labour  in  a  needy  world  o'  men,  straight  up 
in  the  crimson  light,  a  good  wish  an'  a  smile 
for  the  man  who'd  taken  away  his  joy.  But  I 
seed  that  he  stumbled  a  bit,  on  his  way  through 
the  shop,  an'  I  had  never  seed  un  stumble 
afore ;  an'  he  muttered,  *  Oh,  dear  God  ! '  as  he 
passed  me,  an'  'twas  the  first  word  o'  real  com- 
plaint that  ever  fell  from  his  lips  t'  my  knowl- 
edge since  he  had  laid  the  little  Giant-Killer 
away. 

"  So  I  followed  out,  an'  walked  home  along- 
side, t'  the  cottage  by  Blow-Me.  An'  though 
Tom  Tulk  said  never  a  word  by  the  way,  I  fan- 
cied he  had  no  mean  thought  o'  the  company 
of  a  lad  like  me,  bein'  a  great  reader  o'  the 
hearts  o'  folk.  'Twas  fallen  near  dark  when 
we  climbed  the  hill.  There  was  some  coals 
aglow,  beyond  the  tickle,  like  the  embers  of  a 
burnt-out  fire;  but  a  soggy  fog  was  down — 
thick  on  sea  an'  hills — an'  afore  we  comet' 
Tom  Tulk's  gate  'twas  dark  as  midnight  on  our 
coast.  Skipper  Tom  stopped,  then,  t'  sense  the 
weather :  no  glance  about,  at  all — jus'  a  Kttle 
wait,  with  his  head  cocked  ;  an'  then,  it  seemed 
t'  me,  he  knowed  all  about  it. 


152      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  A  black  night,'  says  he,  *  for  young  an' 
old.' 

"  '  lN"o  mail-boat  the  night,'  says  I. 

"  *  She'll  come,  Tumm,'  says  he ; '  she've  ears 
t'  hear  with.     Good-night,  lad.' 

"  *  Man,'  says  I,  '  she  carCt  come  in  the  night ! 
'Tis  too  dark  an'  foggy  for  any  craft  t'  enter 
Kickity  Tickle.' 

" '  She've  ears,  Tumm.' 

" '  You're  jokin'.  Skipper  Tom.' 

" '  No,'  says  he.  '  I've  give  her  two  ears  t' 
hear  with.' 

"  An'  'twas  all  true  enough  1 " 


XXIII 

THE  MIEACLE 

"  ^  IT  THEN  1  got  back  t'  the  shop  'twas 
%/%/  a  hullabaloo  I  encountered.  Pinch- 
a-Penny  Peter  had  broke  a  leg.  A 
slip  in  the  dark,  says  they,  on  the  rooks  o'  Squid 
Cove.  An'  there  was  Pinch-a-Penny,  with 
neither  wife  nor  child  t'  ease  un,  howlin'  an' 
helpless  in  an  up-stairs  room  o'  the  big  house 
on  the  hill.  An'  the  mail-boat  was  goin'  by  in 
the  dark,  with  the  gov'ment  doctor  aboard. 
She  would  never  dare  t'  put  in  through  the 
devil-may-care  soatterin'  o'  black  reefs  off 
Kickity  Tickle.  An'  there  was  no  help  for 
pain  this  side  o'  Tilt  Cove — thirty  mile  t'  the 
s'uth'ard  !  Ecod ! — 'twas  the  mess  of  a  gener- 
ation :  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter,  the  Rickity  Tickle 
trader,  yelpin'  like  a  hurt  dog  an'  beggin'  God 
A'mighty  for  mercy  in  his  pain !  An'  the  mail- 
boat  was  goin'  by  in  the  dark!  I  mind  I 
couldn't  well  believe  it:  for  I  wasn't  much 
more  than  a  lad,  then,  an'  ol'  Pinch-a-Penny 
153 


154      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB  ' 

Peter,  with  his  shop  an'  his  storehouses,  was 
near  as  big  as  the  Lord  in  the  lives  of  us  all. 
But  when  I  got  under  the  window,  with  half 
the  folk  o'  the  place,  I  learned,  from  the  noise 
Pinch-a-Penny  was  makin',  that  he  wasn't  no 
better  than  me,  after  all. 

"An'  then  the  mail-boat  whistled.  'Twas 
she,  sure  enough,  offshore  in  the  bay!  Too- 
oo-oot !  An'  again  an'  again !  She  was  blowin' 
her  head  off — always  nearer :  a  slow  feelin'  o' 
the  way  t'  harbour.  'Twas  a  miracle  of  a  dark 
night  like  that.  Toot-toot !  She  was  off  the 
narrows.  An'  Cap'n  Hand  was  a  stranger  to 
our  waters — an'  there  was  never  a  man  o' 
Eickity  Tickle  able  t'  come  in  from  mid-bay  of 
a  foggy  night !  'Twas  a  miracle,  beyond  doubt. 
A  long  blast,  an'  ecod,  she  was  in — her  lights 
showin'  off  Blow-Me!  I'm  not  knowin'  very 
well  what  our  people  thought  of  it  that  night ; 
but  as  for  me  I  got  it  back  into  my  head  all  at 
once  that  the  Lord  was  at  the  elbow  o'  Pinch- 
a-Penny  Peter,  whatever  might  seem  at  times. 

"  Cap'n  Hand  come  ashore  with  the  doctor ; 
an'  'tis  said  that  when  Pinch-a-Penny  was 
stowed  away,  his  pain  all  eased,  he  turned  t' 
Cap'n  Hand,  an'  — 


THE  MIRACLE  155 

** '  Cap'n  Hand/  says  he,  *  how'd  you  manage 

"  *  Took  lessons  from  Blind  Tom  Tulk.' 

"  '  Tell  me,'  says  Pinch-a-Penny. 

"  *  Ears,'  says  Cap'n  Hand. 

" '  What's  the  good  o'  ears  ? ' 

"  *  For  a  man  t'  hear  his  way  with.' 

"  <  Hear  his  way  ?    I  can't  fathom  it.' 

"*  Echoes.' 

"  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter,  t'  be  sure,  had  Blind 
Tom  Tulk  t'  the  big  house  in  the  mornin',  an' 
give  un  the  Seventh  Son  t'  take  down  the 
Labrador.  'Tom,'  says  he,  'you  can  take  the 
Seventh  Son  from  here  t'  Jupiter  if  you  wants 
to.  An'  I'd  not  be  alarmed  if  you  fished  at  Black 
Joe.  I'm  free  t'  say  that  I  never  knowed  afore 
that  ears  was  as  good  as  eyes  on  a  dark  night.' 
But  Tom  Tulk  said  he  hadn't  done  nothin'  t' 
tell  about.  Anybody  with  no  eyes  t'  speak  of, 
says  he,  would  find  a  way  t'  get  along  with  his 
ears ;  an'  a  man  with  neither  ears  nor  eyes,  he'd 
be  bound,  could  do  very  well  in  this  world  with 
his  nose.  Anyhow,  you  may  think  as  you  likes 
about  that:  but  'twas  Blind  Tom  Tulk  o' 
Kickity  Tickle — an'  none  other  than  Blind  Tom 
Tulk — that  first  found  a  use  for  echoes.     They 


156      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

was  silly  enough  things  afore  Tom  Tulk  put  un 
t'  work,  God  knows!  An'  they're  sailin'  by 
echoes  yet  on  our  coast ;  an'  I'm  told  that  Tom 
Tulk's  invention  has  got  as  far  as  the  Alaskan 
seas." 

The  cook  of  the  Quick  as  Wink  laughed. 
"  You  mean  t'  say,"  he  demanded,  "  that  Cap'n 
Hand  took  the  /Scotia  into  Eickity  Tickle  by 
means  o'  the  echoes  of  his  whistle  ?  " 

"  I  does,"  Tumm  replied. 

There  is  more  than  one  Newfoundland  mail- 
boat  captain  getting  about  at  times  in  the  fog 
in  the  same  way  to  this  day. 


XXIV 
THE  CEEW  OF  THE  8EYENTE  SON 

TUMM  of  the  Quick  as  WinJc  was  so- 
licitously interested  in  his  "  liT  rose- 
bush." It  was  a  dwarfed  plant — a 
glory  pertinaciously  flourishing  out  of  place  and 
in  defiance  of  all  precedent.  It  was  however 
neither  conspicuously  scrawny  nor  conspic- 
uously unhealthy.  And  whatever  its  physical 
defects  it  was  splendidly  courageous.  But  yet 
it  seemed  somehow  to  thrive  in  sheer  despera- 
tion, not  at  all  favoured  by  circumstances, 
which  were  dark  and  salty  and  cold,  all  inim- 
ical to  soft  beauties,  God  knows  !  but  to  pre- 
serve its  good  humour  and  measure  of  green 
health  in  spite  of  all  that  was  adverse  in  the 
evil  weather  we  encountered.  I  had  never  be- 
fore seen  a  rose-bush  grown  in  a  flower-pot. 
But  here  was  one,  indeed — a  lusty  dwarf  I  It 
was  a  tiny  plant,  miniature  of  the  bushes  in 
great  southern  gardens,  here  confined  and 
stunted,  but  so  tenderly  nourished  that  its  little 
157 


158      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

leaves  were  defiantly  thick  and  crisp  and  green. 
Tumm  praised  its  humour — delighted  in  its 
morning  freshness,  was  enraptured  with  its 
youthful  company :  and  maintained,  with  much 
agreeable  blasphemy,  that  there  never  had  been 
a  "  li'l'  bush  "  of  such  persistent  optimism  and 
good-humoured  satisfaction  with  its  situation. 
There  was  no  light  to  boast  of  in  Tumm's  cabin. 
That  was  a  place  almost  wholly  preempted  by 
a  most  extraordinary  quantity  and  variety  of 
merchandise  which  Tumm  was  anxiously  en- 
gaged in  exchanging  for  salt  fish.  Even  with 
the  inner  doors  wide  and  the  hatch  drawn  back 
the  light  that  ventured  in  was  of  such  a  quality 
and  so  abashed  that  its  intrusion  was  of  the 
most  dif&dent  sort  and  it  seemed  presently  to 
be  put  altogether  to  rout  by  the  gloom. 

But  there  was  a  hearty  sort  of  day  in  the 
little  skylight  over  the  counter.  And  it  was 
there  that  Tumm  kept  his  rose-bush.  There 
was  a  narrow  board  across ;  and  there  was  a 
round  hole  in  the  board,  and  in  the  round 
hole  the  red  flower-pot  reposed.  The  plant 
was  showered  with  light:  it  aspired  towards 
the  light ;  and  it  managed  somehow  or  other 
to  keep  in  blithe  humour  no  matter  what  depth 


CREW  OF  THE ''SEVENTH SON''  159 

of  fog  was  abroad,  and  no  matter  how  salt  and 
frosty  the  wind  that  was  blowing,  and  no  mat- 
ter how  long  an  alien  little  plant  of  such 
delicacy  of  constitution  must  remain  indoors  to 
keep  from  catching  its  death  of  cold.  When 
the  sun  shone — and  the  sun  shone  quite  often, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told — Tumm  would  have 
the  rose-bush  out  for  an  airing.  It  stood  on 
the  house,  near  the  cabin  hatch,  with  the  sun- 
shine falling  warm  upon  it  and  the  blue  wind 
caressing  its  delighted  little  leaves.  I  had  often 
seen  old  Tumm  sponge  its  every  leaf.  Tumm 
loved  the  stunted  little  thing  and  nurtured  its 
growing  with  fondest  care.  I  fancied  then — 
and  I  have  since  become  convinced  of  it — that 
the  "liT  rose-bush"  signified  to  old  Tumm  some- 
thing pertaining  to  the  spirit.  It  was  dwarfed, 
it  lacked  all  natural  opportunity,  it  promised  no 
useful  beauty :  but  yet  its  courage  was  high  and 
blithe ;  and  when  Tumm  was  most  downcast, 
bewildered  by  the  puzzles  and  perversities  of 
life,  as  on  the  night  when  he  told  the  tale  of 
the  quaint  little  death  the  Giant-Killer  had  died 
at  Neck-o'-Land  Bight,  he  seemed  to  discover 
some  warm  consolation  in  its  presence  aboard. 
"You  mark  m^/"  says  he,  darkly  signifi- 


i6o      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

cant.     "  Some  day  I'll  get  a  flower  from  that 
liT  rose-bush  1  " 

'Twas  late  fall  weather,  now.  The  winds 
were  heavy  with  the  weight  of  the  season. 
There  was  the  first  of  winter  in  the  air :  sleet 
was  in  the  gales,  snow  fell,  ice  formed  forward, 
the  rigging  was  clogged  with  ice.  Here  and 
there  ran  the  Quick  as  Wink  to  pick  up  the  last 
of  her  fish  and  to  deal  out  winter  supplies  of 
pork  and  flour  to  the  folk  that  needed  them 
most.  Presently  winter  would  fall  down  and 
tight  close  the  ports  of  the  shore  until  the  warm 
winds  blew  in  the  spring ;  and  no  man  must  be 
forgotten,  however  unlucky  and  poor — and 
none  wilfully  neglected.  'Twas  not  Tumm's 
way  to  leave  unfortunate  folk  in  the  lurch 
(whatever  bad  name  more  pious  folk  may  give 
the  traders) :  nor  was  it  his  way,  indeed,  to  let 
a  fish  slip  through  his  fingers  that  he  might 
have  profitably  stowed  away  in  the  hold  of  the 
Quick  as  Wink.  And  still  the  tale  of  Tom 
Tulk  went  untold.  Day  followed  day — black 
weather  and  blue,  l^ights  went  by  with  the 
forecastle  bogey-stove  glowing  its  invitation  to 
tell  stories.  But  the  yarn  of  Tom  Tulk — the 
end  of  the  yarn — the  yarn  of  the  great  deed  he 


CREW  OF  THE '' SEVENTH  SON''  i6i 

had  done — the  tale  with  a  moral  that  Blind 
Tom  Tulk  had  left  behind — was  not  begun.  I 
wondered  what  that  deed  had  been.  Tom  Tulk 
had  the  Seventh  Son  to  take  down  the  Labrador : 
he  had  won  her  from  the  fate  that  overtakes 
old  men — and  by  sheer  merit  and  incredible 
ingenuity.  And  I  wondered  once  more  how 
the  blind  old  skipper  of  a  Labradorman  could 
live  and  leave  a  tale  with  a  moral  brave  enough 
to  be  told  o'  black  nights  in  harbour  to  this  day. 

One  night  at  Tickle- My-Eibs,  when  trade 
was  done,  Tumm  came  forward  for  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  That  liT  rose-bush  o'  mine "  he  began. 

"  Gettin'  saucy  ?  "  the  skipper  interrupted. 

"  That  lil'  rose-bush " 

"Got  a  tooth  yet?" 

"Anyhow,"  says  Tumm,  indignant,  "that 
li'l'  rose-bush  o'  mine  would  sure  surprise  you  if 
you  could  see  him  now." 

And  Tom  Tulk? 

Presently  Tumm  resumed  the  tale  of  Tom 
Tulk.  "  Where  was  I  ?  "  says  he.  "  Oh,  ay  ! 
I  tol'  you  how  Tom  Tulk  had  teached  Cap'n 
Hand  t'  fetch  the  mail-boat  into  Kickity 
Tickle  of  a  foggy  night  by  means  o'  the  echoes 


i62      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

of  his  whistle.  An'  I  tol'  you  how  Pinch-a- 
Penny  Peter  had  give  Tom  Tulk  the  Seventh 
Son  t'  take  down  north  again — or  t'  take  t' 
Jupiter  an'  back,  if  Tom  Tulk  had  the  mind  t' 
risk  it.  An'  I  'low  you  thinks  that  Tom  Tulk 
was  well-berthed  an'  satisfied.  Satisfied  ?  Oh, 
ay !  Tom  Tulk  was  never  nothin'  else  but 
satisfied.  A  man  whose  religion  it  is  t'  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  job  can't  very  well  be  discon- 
tent with  the  best  job  he  can  get  however  bad 
it  may  be.  But  well-berthed  ?  Not  at  all ! 
The  Seventh  Son  was  old.  I  reckon  that  she 
was  the  worst  basket  that  sailed  the  Labrador 
in  them  years.  I  used  t'  think  that  she  was  as 
old  as  Tom  Tulk — an'  that  was  eighty  year  old 
an'  more.  She  wasn't,  whatever.  But  she  was 
old  enough  t'  be  grandfather  t'  most  o'  the  craft 
that  fished  the  coast.  An'  she's  the  great-great- 
grandfather of  many  a  vessel  that  fishes  the 
Labrador  in  these  days :  for  she  was  a  stout, 
blithe  boat  in  her  youth,  an'  the  builders  still 
follows  her  lines.  But  when  Blind  Tom  Tulk 
begun  t'  fit  her  out  for  the  last  time  she  was 
rotten  an'  doubtless  ashamed  of  her  state  :  her 
hull  was  rotten,  her  spars  was  guilty  o'  dry-rot, 
her  riggin'  was  infirm,  her  runnin'  gear  was 


CREW  OF  THE  "  SEVENTH  SON''  163 

delicate  with  old  age.  Painted  up,  she  was  fair 
enough  t'  the  eye ;  but  a  good  push — the  slap  of 
a  round  gale  o'  wind — would  have  toppled  her 
over. 

"*  Skipper  Tom,'  says  Pinch-a-Penny,  *no 
objection  if  you  fish  Black  Joe  this  season.' 
"  *  So  ! '  says  Tom.    '  Well,  weU ! ' 
"  *  Nor  Thumb-an'-Finger  neither.' 
"  *  I^or  Thumb-an'-Finger ! '  says  Tom.   ^  Dear 
man !    That's  queer ! ' 

" '  Oh,  no,'  says  Peter.  *  Nothin'  queer  about 
it.  I've  jus'  learned  that  they  won't  insure  the 
Seventh  Son  no  more.  That's  all.  An'  with  no 
insurance  papers — an'  no  clause  in  the  papers 
against  fishin'  Black  Joe  an'  Thumb-an'-Finger 
— ^you  is  free  t'  look  for  the  fish  where  you 
likes.' 

" '  Ha ! '  says  Tom.     '  That's  fine  ! ' 
"  '  I  reckon  it  won't  trouble  you  !  '  Pinch-a- 
Penny  laughed. 

" '  Trouble  me  ! '  says  Tom.  '  Well,  no !  I've 
never  been  sot  on  fishin'  Black  Joe.  But  all  my 
life  long  I've  wanted  t'  fish  Thumb-an'-Finger. 
An'  if  it  hadn't  been  that  them  insurance  papers 
forbid  it  I'd  have  fished  Thumb-an'-Finger  long 
ago.' 


i64      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  ^  You'll  have  trouble  gettin'  a  crew,'  says 
Peter. 

" '  Ha,  ha ! '  says  Tom.  '  That's  a  good  one  I 
I  reckon  Blind  Tom  Tulk  won't  have  no  trouble 
gettin'  a  crew.' 

"  '  As  for  the  vessel,  'twould  be  small  loss  if 
you  cast  her  away.' 

"  <  'Twould  break  my  ol'  heart  t'  cast  her 
away  I ' 

" '"  As  it  turns  out,'  says  Peter,  '  she's  not 
much  use  t'  nobody  no  more.' 

"  *  I  loves  her  ! ' 

" '  But  Tom — oh,  Tom,  b'y ! — if  you  can  only 
— if  you  cam  only  come  home  loaded ' 

"  '  Oh,  I'll  get  my  load  ! ' 

" '  'Twould  be  a  Godsend,'  says  Peter. 
•  Things  looks  black  enough  for  me  when  it 
comes  t'  settlement-time  in  the  fall  o'  the  year. 
An'  I'm  not  countin'  on  the  Seventh  Son  very 
much  this  year.  I'm  dependin'  on  a  good 
Labrador  fishery.  I'm  countin'  on  my  new 
vessels  an'  young  skippers.  An'  if  the  Seventh 
Son  should  come  home  loaded  'twould  be  all 
clear  gain.' 

"*You  depend  on  Blind  Tom  Tulk,'  says 
Tom.     'He^s  the  lad  t'  get  his  load,' 


CREW  OF  THE '' SEVENTH  SON''  165 

"  *  If  the  other  vessels  fail,  an'  the  ol'  Seventh 
Son  gets  her  load ' 

"*Ay,  sir?' 

"  *  I  can't  tell  you,'  says  Peter,  '  what  that 
would  mean — t'  me ! ' 

"  It  turned  out  as  Pinch-a-Penny  had  said. 
Tom  Tulk  had  trouble  gettin'  a  fishin'  crew  for 
the  Seventh  Son.  When  'twas  noised  about  that 
nobody  would  insure  her  the  lads  fought  shy  o' 
the  risk.  Tom  Tulk  was  all  right !  No  fault 
t'  find  with  he  !  But  the  Seventh  Son — an  ol' 
wash-tub  that  nobody  would  insure !  I  heard 
un  talk  it  over  on  the  hill  by  the  Church  o' 
England,  where  the  men-folk  gather  for  gossip 
of  a  Sunday  evenin' ;  an'  they  determined,  one 
an'  all,  that  'twould  be  better  t'  stay  ashore  an' 
fish  the  Cow-house  Grounds  with  hook  an'  line 
than  venture  down  north  on  the  Seventh  Son. 
But  ol'  Tom  wasn't  daunted.  Not  he!  *In 
these  here  parts,'  says  he,  '  there's  many  an  old 
man  wantin'  a  berth.'  An'  'twas  old  men  he 
shipped — old,  old  men,  with  life  a  heavy  burden, 
or  tired  o'  livin'  off  the  gov'ment,  or  weary  with 
dwellin'  with  their  own  posterity.  *  I'm  an  ol' 
man  wantin'  a  berth,'  says  Tom,  ^  an'  I  reckon 


i66      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

there's  many  another  like  me,  willin'  for  labour 
an'  not  at  all  particular  as  to  the  risk.'  'Twas 
true.  Tom  shipped  ol'  George  Shot  o'  White 
Island  Tickle,  an'  Uncle  Amos  Lull  o'  Delilah 
Island,  an'  Palsied  Tom  Tuttle  o'  Pine  Cove,  an' 
Bald  John  Eoot  o'  Eoot  Bight— a  toothless,  dod- 
derin'  crew :  a  crew  o'  baldheads  an'  grajbeards. 
Every  man  past  his  labour,  except  the  first  hand, 
who  went  for  a  share  an'  a  half,  because  he 
wanted  t'  be  wed  in  the  fall,  an'  except  the 
cook's  young  grandson,  who  went  because  he 
knowed  no  better,  an'  except  me,  who  went  jus' 
for  the  fun  o'  the  thing. 

" '  You  better  stay  t'  home,  Tumm,'  says  Tom. 

"*Me?'  says  I.  'Not  so!  I  wants  t'  see 
these  ol'  ghosts  an'  great-gran'fathers  haul  the 
cod-traps.' 

"  *  Yery  good  ! '  says  he,  with  his  fried  eyes 
angry.  '  Yery  good,  sir !  An'  you'll  find  that 
the  aged  haves  a  will  for  labour ! ' 

"  I  was  sorry. 

"  '  Skipper  Tom  ! '  says  I. 

"'What  now?' 

" '  It  won't  do  you  no  harm  on  the  cruise,  sir,' 
says  I,  '  t'  have  a  young  feller  like  me — some- 
wheres  handy  ? ' 


CREW  OF  THE  '*  SEVENTH  SON''  167 

"  *  Tumm,'  says  he,  '  I  misjudged  you.  God 
bless  ye ! ' " 

Tumm  laughed. 

"  What  you  laughin'  at?"  the  skipper  of  the 
Quick  as  Wink  demanded. 

"  Oh,"  Tumm  replied,  "  jus'  at  that  ol'  rotten 
basket  of  a  Seventh  Son  puttin'  out  from  Kickity 
Tickle  t'  fish  the  Labrador  with  a  blind  skipper 
an'  a  crew  o'  baldheads  an'  gray  beards  stumblin' 
about  the  decks  ! " 

He  laughed  heartily. 


XXV 

DECKS  AWASH 

"  TTT  didn't  turn  out  as  Tom  Tulk  had  said. 

I     'Twould  be  a  grand  year  for  fish,  says 

he;  but  they  wasn't  no  fish — not  for 

many.     Skipper  Tom  took  the  Seventh  Son 

through  the  Straits  in  a  westerly  blow,  an'  beat 

the  fleet  north  at  his  leisure,  with  leave  t'  pick 

an'  choose   his  berth.     He  tried  Black  Joe. 

No  insurance  t'  stop  un.    But  there  was  nothin' 

there.    An'  glad  I  was  of  it.    He  was  first  at 

Mugford  Tickle,    l^o  fish  there.     'Twas  Pinch- 

Me  Head,  below  Mugford,  last  choice  for  Tom ; 

an'  down  went  the  traps,  fair  between  the 

Thumb  an'  the  Finger — sea  room  t'  get  out, 

with  fair  warnin',  but  no  harbour  near  by,  an' 

a  devilish  shore  t'  go  t'  wreck  on.    No  fish : 

not  a  fin — not  a  tail.     The  Barnyards,  then ; 

an'  thereafter  the  Hen-an'-Chickens,   Run-by- 

Guess  an'  Baby  Tickle.    No  fish — an'  the  days 

o'  that  season  scootin'  by  !    No  fish  for  nobody  : 

Green  Bay  schooners  with  their  salt  not  touched, 

men.  Trinity  fore-an'-afters  an' 
1 68 


DECKS  AWASH  169 

Twillingate  skippers  flutterin'  the  length  o'  the 
coast  half  mad  for  fish  an'  ease  o'  mind. 

"  'Twas  the  Second  Lean  Year  :  many  an  out- 
port  merchant,  caught  in  the  Labrador  gamble, 
went  under  in  the  fall.  But  Blind  Tom  Tulk, 
with  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  on  his  mind,  never 
give  up  :  for  says  he,  'twas  his  last  season  on  the 
coast,  an'  he  had  a  mind  t'  make  a  load  of  it, 
God  help  un  !  From  Baby  Tickle  t'  Stop-a-Bit 
Bay  an'  Try- Again :  a  quintal  here  an'  a  quintal 
there — we'd  something  t'  show,  whatever,  when 
Blind  Tom  Tulk  up  with  the  traps  in  the  middle 
o'  the  night  an'  put  back  t'  the  Thumb-an'- 
Finger  o'  Pinch-Me  with  a  fair  wind. 

"  The  fish  struck  in :  a  fortnight  without 
sleep — an'  the  Seventh  Son  was  loaded. 

"  *  A  quintal  or  two  more,'  says  Tom, 
*  wouldn't  hurt  Pinch-a-Penny's  fortune  none.' 

"  ITo,  no ! 

"  *  She'll  carry  more  yet,'  says  Tom. 

"  We  stowed  more  away. 

"  '  Ecod  ! '  says  Tom  ;  *  she'll  do  very  well  a 
little  bit  deeper  still,  I'll  be  bound  ! ' 

"  Down  she  went ! 

"  *  Oh,  well,'  says  Tom,  '  jus'  another  quintal 
or  two ! ' 


I70     THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"Another  quintal  or  two — another  an'  an- 
other !  Fish  for  the  takin' !  Hold  fair  jammed 
t'  the  hatches  with  green  cod.  'Twas  beyond 
Skipper  Tom  t'  cry  quits  or  enough. 

"  '  Stow  un  in  the  cabin,'  says  he ;  ^  an'  then 
we'll  load  the  deck.  Isn't  often  a  man  gets  a 
load  in  a  failed  season  ;  an'  as  for  me,'  says  he, 
*  I'm  so  old  at  this  labour  that  I'd  as  lief  sleep 
with  a  fish  as  a  friend.  My  last  vy^ge,''  says 
he ;  *  an'  I'll  leave  a  tale  for  forecastle  tellin'  o' 
black  nights  for  years  t'  come  on  this  coast,  or 
I'll  know  the  reason  why.  Tale  o'  Blind  Tom 
Tulk's  last  cruise,'  says  he ;  '  they'll  tell  it  from 
Twillingate  Long  Point  nor'ard  t'  Cake-o'-Soap 
Harbour  an'  the  huts  o'  the  huskies  when  ol' 
Tom  Tulk's  bones  is  growed  used  t'  their  rest. 
If  'tisn't  a  tale,'  says  he,  "twill  be  a  song. 
They  isn't  goin'  t'  forget  me  in  a  hurry  if  the 
Seventh  Son  ever  sees  Eickity  Tickle  again.' 

"  An'  the  coast  remembers.  Song  an'  tale : 
Tom  Tulk  got  his  deserts  in  the  records : 

**  *  He  sailed  with  his  decks  awash  ! 

He  sailed  with  his  decks  awash-wash-washy 
Se  sailed  with  his  decks  awash  ! ' 

"  The  Seventh  Son  settled  with  her  burden  o' 
the  catch.    Down  she  goes — lower  an'  lower — 


DECKS  A  WASH  1 7 1 

'til  her  decks  was  near  flush  with  the  sea.  A 
last  haul :  then  a  clear  night — stars  above  t'  the 
last  star  of  all — blood  an'  the  flare  o'  torches  on 
deck — an'  at  dawn  Tom  Tulk  called  it  a  load. 

"  '  Loaded  ! '  says  he. 

"  Ay,  loaded  ! 

"  *  Decks  awash  ! '  says  he ;  *  we'll  get  the 
gear  aboard,  lads,  an'  put  t'  sea.' 

"  *  No  sleep  ?  '  says  the  first  hand. 

"  *  I  wants  t'  go  home,'  says  Tom. 

"  *  Crew's  all  wore  out,  Skipper  Tom.' 

"  *  Ah,  but  I  wants  t'  go  home  ! '  says  Tom 
Tulk. 

"  'Twas  a  fine  night,  that  night.  I  mind  it 
well — dark  o'  the  moon  :  stars  out  an'  a  f avourin' 
wind  for  deep  craft.  An'  the  Thumb-an'-Finger 
o'  Pinch-Me  was  big  in  the  shadows,  with  a  flash 
o'  slow  breakers  between.  Glad  t'  get  out  ? — 
oh,  ay :  for  'tis  no  place  for  a  fishin'  craft  off 
Pinch-Me  Head.  The  sea  was  aboard  us  then. 
A  wet  deck :  an'  I  had  never  afore  trod  a  wet 
deck  of  a  tender  night  with  the  wind  behind. 
'Twas  uncanny :  'twas  fair  irreligious — a  mad 
temptation  o'  the  hell  where  winds  is  brewed. 
But  Skipper  Tom  would  have  it  so,  an'  was  easy 
in  his  mind,  so  far  as  a  man  could  tell :  oh,  jus' 


172      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

alio  win',  says  he,  t'  creep  alongshore,  harbour  t' 
harbour,  waitin'  for  fair  winds,  takin'  it  easy, 
dawdlin'  an'  lazy,  foolin'  with  the  weather,  till 
'twas  time  t'  cross  the  Straits.  No  objection  at 
all,  says  he,  t'  slow  sailin'  by  day  or  night :  for 
'twould  make  the  fleet  rage  an'  wonder — an' 
they'd  ever  remember  the  deed — t'  see  Blind 
Tom  Tulk  go  home  with  decks  awash  of  a  failed 
season.  'Twas  what  he'd  wanted  all  along  :  a 
thing  t'  be  remembered — a  deed  beyond  the 
deeds  o'  men  with  eyes.  What's  time,  says  he, 
to  a  loaded  craft  of  a  failed  season  ? — with  the 
price  o'  fish  jumpin'  towards  the  sky  in  the 
hungry  world  beyond. 

"  An'  so  we  loafed  t'  the  s'uth'ard,  puttin'  up 
o'  nights,  anchor  down  in  safe  harbour  when  the 
winds  blew  evil,  an'  stealin'  a  march  when  the 
weather  was  kindly.  An'  we  come  in  this  way 
t'  High  Eoost,  Tickle-Me-Eibs,  Dirty-Face  Bight 
an'  the  Poor  Maid's  Secret,  safe  sailin',  if  slow, 
but  with  the  Harbourless  Shore  ahead.  'Twas 
the  Harbourless  Shore  I  dreaded.  All  very 
well,  thinks  I,  t'  boast  a  way  through  harboured 
waters ;  but  with  a  stretch  o'  careless  cliffs  t' 
face  the  matter  was  not  the  same. 

"  At  Poor  Maid's  Secret  I  cotched  Skipper 


DECKS  A  WASH  1 73 

Tom  with  his  nose  t'  the  glass :  his  eyes,  too,  t' 
be  sure — but  so  close  t'  that  cheap  Yankee 
barometer  that  the  tip  of  his  nose  rubbed  the 
bulb. 

"  *  You're  a  good  lad,  Tumm,'  says  he. 

"'Ay? 'says  I. 

"  *  You're  a  honest  lad.' 

"'Ay?' 

"  *  I'm  blind,'  says  he. 

"  It  didn't  strike  me  as  anything  out  o'  the 
way.  *  Sure,  you're  blind ! '  says  I.  '  Every- 
body knows  it.  You've  been  blind  since  I  was 
a  lad.' 

"  '  I  don't  mean  that  way,  Tumm.' 

"  *  You  mean.  Skipper  Tom,  that  you're — that 
you're — hlind  ? ' 

"  *  Ay,'  says  he,  *  I'm  blind.  I've  nothin'  at 
all  but  ears  t'  help  me  get  home.  It — it — hap- 
pened las'  night — when  I  was  asleep.  They 
wasn't  no  dawn  for  me  this  mornin'.  I — I — 
been  kind  o'  keepin'  it  t'  myself.  But  I  'low 
somebody  ought  t'  know.' 

"  Still  I  wasn't  put  out.     « Well  ? '  says  I. 

"'Well?'  says  he.  'What  you  think, 
Tumm  ? ' 

" '  It  won't  make  no  difference  t'  you,  will  it, 


174      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

Skipper  Tom  ? '  says  I.  '  Can't  you  get  along 
jus'  the  same  ?  ' 

"  You  see,  I  couldn't  believe  that  blindness 
mattered  t'  Blind  Tom  Tulk. 

'' '  Ears  isn't  so  bad,'  says  he,  '  when  you 
knows  how  t'  use  un.  Anyhow,  I  isn't  goin'  t' 
whimper  at  my  age.  'Tis  a  bad  job.  I'll  make 
the  best  of  it.     What's  the  readin'  ?  ' 

"  I  took  a  squint  at  the  glass. 

"  *  I  can't  hear  that  glass  drop,'  says  he  ;  *  but 
the  weather-sense  I  got  tells  me  that  it  ought 
t'  be  fallin'  with  a  noise  like  a  clap  o'  thunder.' 

"  *  Readin's  fair,'  says  I. 

"  '  Fair  ! ' 

"  '  Fair  an'  fine.' 

"  *  A  wonderful  liar,  that  "^heap  Yankee 
glass  ! '  says  he. 

"  '  Wind's  blowin'  fair,  too.  Skipper  Tom.' 

"  ^  Ay,'  says  he ;  *  my  cheek  tol'  me  that. 
Wind's  fair — an'  the  Harbourless  Shore  t'  get 
past  with  a  load  o'  fish — an'  we  must  make  it 
in  fair  winds  or  not  at  all — an'  what'll  I  do, 
Tumm?' 

"  ^  A  fair  wind,  a  blue  sky,  an'  a  kindly 
glass,'  says  I. 

"  *  The  glass  lies ! ' 


DECKS  A  WASH  1 75 

"  *  ISTot  the  feel  o'  things.' 

"^That's  it!'  says  he;  *  the  feel  o'  things 
says  wait.  But  she'll  blow  foul  for  a  month 
if  she  starts.  .  .  .  An'  the  wind's  fair,  lad, 
an'  the  glass  tells  its  own  tale  o'  the  weather 
t'  come,  an'  Tom  Tulk's  growed  old,  an'  can't 
trust  hisself  no  more — an'  wants  t'  get  home 
with  his  load.' 

" '  WeU  ? '  says  I. 

"  ^  Call  the  crew,'  says  he ;  '  we'll  trust  that 
Yankee  glass  an'  put  t'  sea.'  " 


I 


XXVI 

"ALL  BLIND  BUT  THE  BLIND" 

it  -^  TOOK  un  on  deck.  'Twas  never  needed 
t'  be  sure,  but  I  led  un  by  the  hand 
where  I  could  go  meself  in  the  dark — a 
broken,  helpless  ol'  feller,  long  past  eighty,  an' 
gone  stone-blind  all  at  once.  'Twas  not  needed 
t'  tell  me  t'  hold  my  tongue.  I'm  not  knowin' 
whether  he  wanted  me  to  or  not.  There  was 
never  a  word  from  he,  whatever,  on  that  score. 
'Twas  jus' — '  Tumm,  I'm  blind ! ' — an'  no  more. 
How  old  he  was! — how  old  the  feel  of  his 
fingers  beside  the  only  other  hand  I  knowed, 
Bessie  Tot's  little  hand,  a  tender  thing  t'  touch, 
by  times,  when  the  little  stars  was  winkin'  on 
the  road  t'  Gull  Island  Cove,  an'  the  night  was 
holy  as  my  own  young  heart.  But  Blind  Tom 
Tulk — oh.  Lord,  how  old !  Growed  old  in  a 
moment  with  the  close  an'  last  snap  o'  the  shut- 
ters of  his  mind.  He'd  shrivelled  in  the  frost 
— a  leaf,  ay,  bitten  deep  by  the  cold  o'  fall. 

"  I  sot  un  down  aft ;  an'  I'll  never  forget  the 
176 


"  ALL  BLIND  BUT  THE  BLIND  "  177 

look  he  bore  for  a  little  while — the  look  of  a 
faded,  crumpled,  castaway  thing,  aged  long  be- 
yond use,  it  seemed,  an'  past  belief.  I  heard 
un  whisper,  '  The  best  of  a  bad  job,  Tom  Tulk ! ' 
An'  then  he  took  hold  of  his  humour  an'  cheered 
up ;  an'  he  was  blithe  enough,  believe  me, 
while  the  first  hand  put  sail  on  the  Seventh  Son 
an'  took  her  t'  sea,  with  the  length  o'  the  Har- 
bourless  Shore  t'  run  past.  Never  a  man 
aboard  could  guess  he'd  gone  blind. 

"An'  then  a  threat  o'  bad  weather:  down 
went  the  Yankee  telltale — down  an'  down: 
you'd  think  she  was  bound  t'  drop  the  bottom 
out,  with  a  blue  sky  t'  belie  her,  an'  the  sun 
warm,  an'  a  lazy  little  wind  comin'  up  the  coast 
t'  push  the  Seventh  Son  towards  haven. 

"  *  Lyin'  again  ! '  says  Blind  Tom  Tulk. 

"  *  She've  a  loud  voice,  sir,'  says  I. 

" '  Ay,'  says  he ;  *  most  liars  has.  There 
won't  be  no  change  afore  night  o'  the  morrow, 
an'  we'll  be  past  Mummer's  Head,  by  then, 
please  God,  with  harbours  t'  run  to  in  case  o' 
need.' 

"  True  enough,  too ;  an'  so  it  turned  out— a 
gale  brewin'  towards  close  o'  the  next  day ;  an' 
Mummers'  Head  behind,  an'  harbours  near  by. 


178      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

But  the  fog  come  down :  a  soggy  time — thick 
mist  for  clear  eyes,  a  slow,  black  sea,  an'  no 
peep  o'  shore.  It  didn't  need  no  glass  t'  tell 
that  there  was  trouble  abroad  for  sailin'  craft : 
the  news  o'  wind  was  in  a  man's  own  heart — 
his  sense  o'  the  sea  an'  his  ears  for  peril.  If 
Blind  Tom  Tulk  was  blind,  stone  blind,  he  was 
yet  on  deck,  fore  an'  aft,  as  clever  as  you  likes, 
with  a  good  grip  on  his  courage.  Puffs  o'  wind 
jumpin'  on  us,  now :  saucy  little  slaps  in  the 
face — leapin'  by  with  a  laugh  at  us :  the  black 
sea  showin'  its  teeth.  An'  round  went  the  wind 
t'  the  s'uth'ard  in  a  way  t'  make  your  heart 
jump :  'twas  no  time  at  all  afore  we  was  beatin' 
into  the  teeth  o'  what  blew.  No  gale  yet :  jus' 
the  promise  o'  big  wind — with  the  fog  down 
an'  thick  night  fallin'.  An'  the  Seventh  Son 
with  decks  awash:  'twas  disquietin',  believe 
me,  t'  feel  her  labour  along,  like  an  overbur- 
dened man. 

"So  the  crew  felt:  a  fidgety  lot,  by  now — 
never  a  man  below,  never  a  voice  lifted,  never 
a  laugh  t'  be  heard ;  an'  all  hands,  from  the 
first  hand  at  the  wheel  t'  the  cook's  boy 
squattin'  woebegone  by  the  galley,  starin'  big- 
eyed  into  the  mist,  as  if  waitin'  t'  greet  the  first 


''ALL  BLIND  BUT  THE  BLIND''  179 

big  wet  swishin'  squall  o'  what  was  comin'. 
'Twas  a  time,  thinks  I,  t'  take  in  sail  an'  t'  lash 
the  deck-load  fast,  afore  the  big  wind  cotched 
us ;  but  Skipper  Tom  would  have  none  o'  that. 
She  was  doin'  very  well,  says  he :  his  feet  told 
un  so ;  an'  praise  the  Lord  she  was  below  Mum- 
mers' Head,  with  Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour  t' 
run  to. 

"  *  Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour,  Skipper  Tom  ! ' 
snorts  the  first  hand.  '  An'  every  man  blind  in 
the  mist ! ' 

"  *  All  blind  but  the  blind  ! '  says  Blind  Tom 
Tulk. 

"If  any  man  had  eyes  t'  see  in  that  black 
fog,  'twas  surely  Skipper  Tom ! " 


w 


XXYII 

'^  LIVES  O^  MEN'\ 

"\H"  JE  got  the  first  puff  o'  the  gale 

jus'    afore    dark    fell    down.     It 

come    out    o'    the    mist   on   the 

jump.    There  was  a  hiss  in  the  dusk  t'  win'ard 

— an'  then  a  flood  o'  white  spray.    The  Seventh 

Son,  with  all  sail  spread,  went  over  to  it,  sulky 

an'  slow  with  her  weight  o'  fish.    It  seemed 

she'd  not  stop,   once  she   got  goin',  an'  she 

held  so  long  in  doubt,   frothy  water  t'  the 

hatches,  that  I  'lowed  she'd  no  heart  t'  stand 

up.     But  up  she  come,  at  last,  good  ol'  girl  that 

she  was  !  an'  the  first  hand  spilled  the  wind  an' 

held  her  up  in  a  peltin'  smother  o'  spray  until 

the  squall  went  by.     'Tis  easy  t'  recall  that  the 

wind  fell  flat  then :  for  the  tales  o'  this  coast 

have  it  so,  every  one — a  white  squall,  a  black, 

breathless  time,  an'  the  devil  t'  pay  for  a  night 

an'  a  day.    The  gale  o'  the  Second  Lean  Year  : 

the  Labrador  fleet  bound  home,  light  laden,  an' 

caught  offshore  in  a  black  mist — an'  blowed 
i8o 


o,-. 


"  VH'^Vt's   A  'd^CJKJ  li^A'ofol  FISH   TO  THE  LIVES  o'   MEN 


'*  LIVES  a  MEN''  i8i 

t'  shreds  an'  Bplinters  afore  dawn  o'  the  next 
day! 

"Never  a  wind  like  that  afore,  they  says. 
An'  ecod,  I'll  swear  that  the  death  an'  ruin  it 
worked  hasn't  been  matched  in  my  time.  Ay,  a 
flat  time  after  the  first  squall :  the  sea  up  a  bit 
— a  long,  black  roll — an'  neither  whisper  nor 
breath  in  the  hot  mist.  'Twas  like  a  dark  room 
with  a  ghost  in  it.  The  Seventh  Son  f elj  away 
into  the  trough;  an'  there  she  rolled,  like  a 
water-logged  derelict,  as  much  as  the  stomach 
o'  mortal  could  stand,  with  Skipper  Tom  sayin' 
never  a  word  about  sail  or  fish,  though  'twas  in 
every  man's  mind  t'  shorten  the  one  an'  jettison 
some  part  o'  the  other. 

"  *  Be  a  breeze  by  an'  by,'  says  he. 

"  '  A  tempest ! '  says  the  first  hand. 

"*Ay,'  says  Skipper  Tom;  *wind  enough 
comin'  down  t'  blow  nails  in  a  coffin.' 

"  '  I'll  shorten  sail,'  says  the  first  hand. 

"  *  Oh,  no  ! '  says  Tom.  *  "We  can't  get  no- 
where without  sM.  An'  we  got  t'  get  out  o' 
this.'' 

"  The  first  hand  jumped. 

"  *  I'm  old,'  says  Tom,  *  an'  I  knows  there's 
no  mercy  in  what's  comin'.' 


i82      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

" '  Thinkin'  about  gettin'  some  o'  this  fish 
overside  ? '  says  the  first  hand. 

"  *  Well,  no,'  says  Tom ;  '  no,  lad — I  wasn't.' 

"'JSTar  a  quintal?' 

" '  I  got  a  load  of  a  failed  season,'  says  Tom. 
*  I — I — wants  t'  take  it  home.  An'  I  thinks  I 
knows  a  way — if  she  breezes  up  a  bit.' 

"  '  She's  deep,'  says  the  first  hand. 

"  *  Deep  laden ! '  says  Tom.  *  Ay,  thank 
God !    She's  deep  laden  of  a  failed  season ! ' 

"The  first  hand  stamped  his  foot  like  a 
woman.     *  Too  deep  for  wind  !     She'll  sink  ! ' 

"  '  She's  below  Mummers'  Head,'  says  Tom, 
'an'  there's  snug  water  at  Bread-an'-Butter 
Harbour.' 

"  '  Snug  water ! '  says  the  first  hand.  ' "  Har- 
bour in  fog  's  no  harbour  at  all."    'Tis  a  sayin'.' 

"^There's  another,'  says  Tom:  '"Ears  an' 
hears  not." ' 

"'What's  a  deck-load  o'  fish  t'  the  lives  o' 
men?' 

" '  I'm  old  enough  t'  know,'  says  the  skipper, 
'  that  a  deck-load  o'  fish  is  the  lives  o'  men. 
An'  by  God,'  says  he,  jumpin'  up — 'by  the 
grace  o'  God  to  a  blind  old  man  who's  done 
his  work  in  the  world,  I'll  get  my  load  home ! ' 


''LIVES  a  MEN''  183 

"  Below  Mummers'  Head,  now,  as  I've  said : 
the  Harbourless  Shore  past;  an'  Tom  Tulk 
knowed  where  he  was.  I  had  watched  un  that 
day — watched  un  smell  the  wind  an'  the  coast 
an'  feel  the  vessel  underfoot.  I  had  been  for- 
ever at  his  elbow — t'  be  his  eyes,  says  he.  But 
it  seemed  t'  me  that  he  needed  no  eyes  at 
all:  for  he'd  know  all  I  said  afore  I  opened 
my  mouth.  An'  I  knowed  that  he  knowed 
where  he  was.  'Mummers'  Head,'  says  he, 
that  afternoon,  afore  the  fog  got  thick.  '  Does 
you  see  it,  Tumm  ?  Is  you  sure  ?  It  mightn't 
be  Daify-Down-Dilly  ?  ISTo,  no ;  'tis  Mummers' 
Head — a  black  rock,  black  in  the  mist,  spruce- 
crested,  eh  ?  an'  a  red  cliff,  like  a  man's  hand, 
bloody  after  fishin'.'  'Twas  even  so!  *  Mum- 
mers' Head,  sure  enough,'  says  he  ;  '  an'  now  I 
knows  where  I  is.' 

"Then  up  the  coast — a  beat  into  the  wind, 
with  Skipper  Tom  keepin'  track  o'  the  ground 
she  gained. 

"  *  Easy  ! '  says  he  t'  the  first  hand,  who  had 
the  wheel.  'I'm  lookin'  for  Bread-an'-Butter 
Harbour.' 

" '  Lookin^  ioi^  Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour ! ' 
says  the  first  hand.     '  An'  a  fog  like  this ! ' 


1 84      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  ^  Ay,'  says  the  skipper,  *  I'm  lookin'  for 
Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour.  An'  I'll  find  it, 
too,  as  we  beats  up  the  shore.  'Tis  here- 
abouts. Go  close.  Don't  be  afeared  o'  the 
coast.  'Tis  a  decent  place — clear  water  an' 
plenty  o'  room.  I  knows  it  of  old.  I've  fished 
it,  boy  an'  man.  Why,  Lord,'  says  he, '  my  first 
blind  season  was  fished  out  o'  Bread-an'-Butter 
Harbour !  'Twas  hereabouts  that  I  learned  t' 
use  my  ears ;  an'  I  can't  be  fooled  by  a  gale  o' 
wind,'  says  he,  *  an'  they  isn't  no  fog  can  keep 
me  out  o'  Bread-an'-Butter  when  I  wants  t' 
go  in.' 

"  An'  so  we  had  come  through  the  day,  until 
the  squall  struck,  an'  the  black  calm  followed, 
in  which  we  lay  when  the  first  hand  made  his 
complaint. 

" '  Aft,  here,  lads ! '  says  Skipper  Tom. 

"  They  come  aft  over  the  decks  :  the  hearts 
scared  out  o'  the  pack  of  un. 

"  '  Every  man  for  hisself ! '  says  Tom.  '  I'm 
gone  blind.  I'll  not  hide  it.  I  can't  see  a 
inch.  But  I  knows  where  I  is,  an'  I  knows 
my  way  about.  Will  it  be  the  first  hand  or 
me?' 

"  ^  I  quit,'  says  the  first  hand. 


''LIVES  a  MEN''  185 

"  *  Hoi'  on ! '  says  Skipper  Tom.  '  Give  the 
lads  a  choice,  an  you  will.' 

"  *  I  tells  you  I  quit ! '  says  the  first  hand.  *  I 
don't  know  where  I  is.' 

"'Well,  lads?' 

"  They  stood  by  Skipper  Tom.  There  wasn't 
no  other  wisdom  handy  on  the  Seventh  Son. 
Tom  Tulk  had  been  half  blind  so  long  that  no- 
body thought  of  un  as  havin'  eyes  at  all ;  an' 
as  for  his  bein'  stone  blind,  'twas  one  an'  the 
same — an'  it  didn't  make  no  difference — ^an' 
nobody  cared  a  hang  about  that." 


XXYIII 

CHAPTEE  TWELVE 

"  r   I   "AOM  TULK  went  for'ard.     He  run 

I        foul    o'  nothin'   at  all :  he  didn't 

stretch  out  a  hand  t'  feel  his  way  : 

he  didn't  once  hesitate  or  stumble.    But  his  ol' 

gray  face  was  grim  ;  an'  I  reckoned,  as  he  went, 

that  he  was  too  sure  of  his  knowledge  o'  the 

vessel  t'  halt  an'  wonder,  an'  far  too  proud  t' 

ask  aid  of  any  man  o'  the  crew.     He  seemed 

t'  look  the  decks  over,  like  a  man  with  sharp 

eyes,  an'  he  pulled  an'  hauled  at  this  an'  that, 

t'    make    sure    that    all    was    shipshape    for 

the  gale  that  was  comin'  down.    An'  all  this 

time  the  first  hand  an'  the  cook's  boy  an'  the 

graybeards   an'    baldheads   stood   gawkin'   at 

his  course.     What  a  fishin'  crew  !    Every  man 

on  his  last  legs — a  toothless,  dried  up,  palsied 

lot — save  the  first  hand  an'  the  cook's  boy  an' 

me.    I  reckon  that  never  a  craft  as  rotten  as 

the  ol'  Seventh  Son  sailed  those  seas  afore,  an' 

that  never  an  ol'  craft,  in  all  the  seas  o'  the 

world,  come  face  t'  face,  decks  awash  with  the 
i86 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  187 

fruits  of  old  men's  toil,  with  the  promise  o' 
wind  that  was  then  abroad ;  an'  I  reckon  that 
never  afore  was  a  blind  oF  man  like  Tom  Tulk 
master  of  a  vessel  in  these  waters,  nor  has  been 
since,  nor  ever  will  be  again.  But  it  didn't 
trouble  Tom  Tulk  a  whit.  I  reckon  he  was 
pleased  an'  proud.  He  come  aft,  steppin'  with 
the  sure  feet  of  a  youth,  with  his  head  in  the 
air,  an'  with  his  bKnd  eyes  swingin'  this  way 
an'  that,  as  if  he  could  see  like  a  hawk  and 
would  be  damned  hard  on  all  offenders.  An' 
the  ol'  fellers  was  astounded — an'  heartened, 
too,  I  'low. 

"He  paused  by  the  cabin  hatch.  *  "We're 
old  men,'  says  he. 

"  They  nodded — as  old  men  will. 

"  *  Though  we're  old  men,'  says  he,  *  we  got 
our  load.' 

"  *  Ay,  b'y ! '  says  they. 

" '  By  the  grace  o'  God,'  says  Tom,  '  us  ol' 
men  will  get  our  load  home.' 

"  If  'twasn't  a  cheer  'twas  much  like  it. 

" '  Fog  abroad  an'  a  gale  o'  wind  comin' 
down,'  says  Tom.  '  An'  in  a  fog  like  this  we're 
all  blind  but  the  blind.  You  trust  ol'  Tom  Tulk 
an'  what  ol'  Tom  Tulk  has  learned  in' the  last 


i88      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

years  of  his  life.  Tom  Tulk  knows  the  way  t' 
Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour.  An'  Tom  Tulk  will 
take  this  craft  an'  every  fin  an'  tail  of  her  load 
o'  fish  into  Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour  with  the 
first  breeze  o'  wind  if  the  crew  stands  by. 
Blind !  Me  blind !  Why,  lads,  old  as  I  am,  an' 
blind  as  I  am,  I  can  yet  see  like  a  hungry  gull ! ' 
"Then  ol'  Tom  Tulk  went  below,  leavin' 
word  t'  be  called,  in  haste,  when  the  first 
breath  o'  wind  come  blowin'  down  from  the 
s'uth'ard.    .    .    . 

"  An'  there  we  was.  'Twas  flat,  hot,  black 
calm.  The  Seventh  Son  tossed  about  in  the  big 
black  swells.  We  was  somewheres  off  the  Lab- 
rador coast.  We  had  come  past  Mummers' 
Head :  we  was  beyond  the  Harbourless  Shore. 
An'  Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour  was  near  by. 
But  where?  An'  how  find  the  narrows  t' 
Bread-an'-Butter  in  a  fog  like  that?  'Twas 
time  for  stout  craft  t'  get  clear  o'  the  coast — 
t'  scurry  off  t'  the  open  sea  an'  ride  out  the 
gale.  But  the  Seventh  Son  was  no  stout 
craft.  She  would  groan  an'  snap  an'  fall  all 
apart  in  a  big  breeze  o'  wind.  .  .  .  Breeze 
o'  wind !    Ecod !    There  would  be  the  devil 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  189 

an'  all  t'  pay  when  the  gale  fell  down.  A  flat, 
black  time — a  fog  like  hot  steam  !  The  whole 
world  waitin'  for  a  tantrum  o'  weather  I  Is 
you  ever  been  out  in  a  hot  fog  ?  No:  not  on  this 
coast.  Il^ot  in  a  fog  so  thick  an'  hot  that  it 
fetched  out  the  sweat.  I  tells  you,  lads,  I  was 
afraid !  Me !  Tumm !  An'  the  gale  that 
presently  come  down  from  the  s'uth'ard  was 
a  thing  t'  make  any  man  quail.  You've  heard 
tell  of  it,  every  one  o'  ye — the  gale  o'  Second 
Lean  Labrador  Year.  .  .  .  An'  I  sot  on 
the  house  watchin'  the  ol'  men  amidships  t' 
ease  my  fears.  An'  'twas  a  sight  I'll  never  for- 
get. Them  old,  old  men!  How  used  t'  toil 
an'  weather  an'  peril  they  was  !  An'  how  near 
they  had  come  t'  the  end  o'  Uf  e.  They  searched 
out  the  weather  signs :  they  mumbled  together 
— they  nodded  their  old  heads  an'  they  shook 
their  old  heads.  They  was  wonderful  wise  an' 
solemn.  It  seemed  t'  me  then — an'  I've  never 
had  cause  t'  change  my  mind — that  'twas  not 
their  lives  they  feared  t'  lose. 

"  Them  ol'  fellers  wanted  t'  save  the  fish. 
Old  as  they  was  they  had  got  a  load  of  a  failed 
season.  AifO  they  wmvted  f  get  tliat  load  6^  fish 
home.     .     .     . 


I90      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  Presently  I  went  below  t'  talk  with  oP 
Tom  Tulk.  Skipper  Tom  an'  me  was  friends. 
An'  I  was  uneasy. 

" '  Skipper  Tom,'  says  I,  '  is  you  sure  that 
you  knows  the  way  t'  Bread-an'-Butter  ? ' 

"  He  chuckled.     '  Sure  ? '  says  he. 

" '  Ay.' 

" '  Me  ? '  says  he.  *  Why,  Tumm,  I'm  so  sure 
that  I'd  bet  a  shillin'  on  it ! ' 

"  * J've  no  wish  t'  be  saucy,  sir,'  says  I.  /  But 
I'm  fair  achin'  t'  know ' 

"  *  Ah-ha ! '  says  he.    '  I'll  not  teU  you  how, 
Tumm.' 
."*But,  sir ' 

"*You  jus'  wait  an'  see,  Tumm,'  says  he, 
*  what  a  man  with  fried  eyes  can  do  when  he's 
bound  an'  determined  t'  make  the  best  of  a  bad 
job.' 

" '  Anyhow,'  says  I,  *  I'm  glad  t'  see  that 
you're  ridin'  easy  in  your  mind.' 

"  'Twas  near  pitch  dark  in  the  cabin.  The 
skylight  was  no  more  than  a  patch  o'  dirty  light. 

"  *  Tumm,'  says  Tom,  '  light  the  lamp.' 

"  ^  IS'ame  o'  wonder ! '  says  I.     '  What  for  ? ' 

"  *  'Tis  a  proper  thing  t'  do  in  a  black  fog 
like  this.' 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  191 

"'But  you  is  blind!' 

" '  T'  be  sure,  I'm  blind !  But  that's  no  good 
reason  why  I  should  act  as  if  I  was  blind.  An' 
I'm  thinkin'  that  a  little  blaze  o'  light  down 
here  would  cheer  me  up.    Anyhow,  I'm  readin'.' 

"'Eeadin'!' 

"  I  lit  the  cabin  lamp.  An'  there  was  Blind 
Tom  Tulk  leanin'  over  the  table  with  his  Bible 
spread  open  afore  un.  It  give  me  a  wonderful 
turn. 

"  '  Skipper  Tom,'  says  I,  '  you  isn't  by  any 
chance  got  back  your  sight  ? ' 

"  *  Oh,  no,'  says  he.     '  I'm  as  blind  as  a  bat.' 

" '  Then  what  you  got  your  Bible  open  for  ? ' 

"  <  I'm  readin\  Tumm !    Ever  read  the  Bible  ? ' 

"'1  used  to.' 

"  '  Well,  then,'  says  he,  '  you  listen  t'  this  li'l' 
chapter  about  ol'  men.  Ecclesiastes,  chapter 
twelve.  Hum  !  Bemember  now  thy  Creator  in 
the  days  6>'  thy  youth ^  says  he,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  page,  jus'  as  if  he  could  see  like  a  parson, 
'while  the  evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years 
draw  nigh  when  thou  shall  say^  I  have  no  pleas- 
ure in  them :  while  the  sun,  or  the  light,  or  the 
moon,  or  the  stars  he  not  darhened ;  nor  the 
clouds  return  after  rain :  in  the  days  when  the 


192      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

Jceepers  d*  tJie  house  shall  tretiible^  arC  the  strong 
men  shall  how  themselves^  an''  the  grinders  cease 
because  they  are  few^  a/n^  those  that  looh  out  o* 
the  windows  he  darkened^  am)  the  doors  shall  he 
shut  in  the  streets,  when  the  sound  o^  the  grindirC 
is  low,  an)  he  shall  rise  iip  at  the  voice  6>'  the 
bird,  an^  all  the  daughters  o^  music  shall  he 
hrought  low  :  also  when  they  shall  he  afraid  o' 
that  which  is  high,  an''  fears  shall  he  in  the  way, 
am)  the  almond  tree  shall  flourish,  an''  the  grass- 
hopper shall  he  a  hurden,  an'  desire  shall  fail  / 
heca/use  man  goeth  to  his  long  home,  an^  the 
Tnoumers  go  dhout  the  streets :  or  ever  the  silver 
cord  he  loosed,  or  the  golden  howl  he  hroken,  or 
the  pitcher  he  hrohen  at  the  fountain,  or  the 
wheel  hrohen  at  the  cistern.  Then  shall  the  dust 
return  to  the  earth  as  it  was,  an"*  the  spirit  shall 
return  unto  God,  who  gave  it) 

"  Old  Tom  looked  up  from  the  page  that  he 
could  not  see  at  all. 

" '  Tamm ! '  he  whispered. 

"*Ay,  sir?' 

"  *  Or  ever  the  silver  cord  he  loosed,  or  the 
golden  howl  he  hroken.  Eemember  that  windy 
night  at  Neck-o'-Land  Bight  ?  Eemember  the 
time   when  the  little  Giant-Killer's  soul  took 


CHAPTER  TWELVE  193 

flight  for  the  starry  coasts  he  so  longed  t' 
sail?' 

"  '  I  remember,  sir.' 

" '  An^  the  spirit  shall  return  unto  God  who 
gave  it.  It  seems  t'  me,  somehow,  that  the  little 
feller  is  still  hangin'  offshore,  somewhere  be- 
yond the  fog  an'  clouds,  as  he  said  he  would, 
waitin'  for  me  t'  go  cruisin'  with  un  t'  them 
far-away  places.' 

"  The  first  hand  poked  his  head  down  the 
cabin  hatch  in  haste  an'  worry. 

" '  Draught  o'  wind  from  the  s'uth'ard,  sir,' 
says  he. 

" '  Let  us  hea/r  the  conclusion  o*  the  whole 
matter^  says  Tom  t'  me,  his  great  thumb  on  the 
page  o'  the  Book,  though  whether  the  Book 
was  upside  down  or  not  I  don't  know :  '  A 
good  man  maJces  the  lest  of  a  had  j oh :  for  this 
is  the  whole  duty  o'  man.  For  God  shall  hring 
every  worh  into  judgment^  with  every  secret 
thing,  whether  it  he  good  or  whether  it  he  eviV 

"  An'  then  he  went  on  deck  t'  face  the  work 
that  was  afore  un." 


XXIX 

THE  BEST  OP  THE  JOB 

"  TT  T  breezed  up :  not  a  squally  wind,  for  that 
I  we  never  could  have  lived  through — a 
"^  steady  enough  wind,  t'  be  sure,  as  Skipper 
Tom  had  looked  for,  but  puffin'  up  an'  up.  We 
begun  t'  beat  t'  the  s'uth'ard  again,  Skipper  Tom 
goin'  easy,  an'  blessin'  the  wind  that  bio  wed. 
'  You  keep  your  courage  an'  stand  by,  lads,  what- 
ever happens,'  says  he,  rubbin'  his  ol'  hands,  *  an' 
I'll  have  you  safe  in  Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour 
afore  the  big  wind  falls  down.'  He  took  the 
Seventh  Son  inshore,  again  an'  again,  until  the 
noise  o'  breakers  fetched  a  yelp  o'  *  Hard-a-lee ! ' 
from  the  lookout  in  the  bow ;  an'  then  the  ol' 
man  went  for'ard  hisself :  for,  says  he  with  a 
grin,  eyes  wasn't  no  good  of  a  foggy  night,  an' 
he  'lowed,  by  the  sound  o'  things,  that  he  was 
close  t'  Bread-an'-Butter  Harbour. 

"  In  an'  out  went  the  Seventh  Son,  lookin'  for 
Bread-an'-Butter,  by  orders  o'  Blind  Tom  Tulk : 
never  far  t'   sea — out  a  bit,   with  the  crew 

breathin'  easy,  an'  then  in,  every  man's  heart 
194 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  JOB        195 

in  his  mouth,  until  Tom  Tulk,  his  ears  cocked 
t'  the  breakers,  sung  '  Hard-a-lee ! '  No  gale 
yet,  mark  you :  but  the  wind  risin'  with  every 
puff,  an'  small  time  left,  by  all  the  signs,  afore 
'twould  blow  the  Seventh  Son  out  o'  the  water. 
A  dark  night,  now,  black  with  fog,  black  t'  the 
best  eyes:  a  blind  skipper,  the  schooner  deep 
in  a  long,  black  swell,  an'  Tom  Tulk  takin'  her 
inshore  until  the  breakers  seemed  fair  under 
her  bows,  though  no  man  could  see  t'  tell. 

"  Tom  Tulk  would  stiffen  a  bit  when  he  got 
ear  o'  the  first  crash  o'  water;  an'  then  he'd 
listen — an'  listen — with  his  southerly  ear  open 
t'  the  shore — an'  his  blind  eyes  closed — while 
every  man  aboard  waited  for  the  next  long  sea 
t'  fling  the  schooner  at  the  cliffs. 

"  Every  time,  ecod !  with  the  noise  o'  breakers 
in  a  man's  ears,  'twas  like  the  gift  o'  life  when 
Tom  Tulk  sung  out  *  Hard-a-lee ! '  an'  the 
schooner  turned  tail  on  the  coast. 

"  *  She's  hereabouts,'  says  he.  *  lN"ext  time 
I'U  find  her.' 

"  '  Skipper  Tom,'  says  I,  <  is  you  sure  ? ' 

"  '  Ah-ha !  "  he  chuckled.  « What's  the  matter 
with  your  voice,  Tumm  ? ' 

" '  'Tis  shakin'  with  fear,'  says  I. 


196      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  '  Ah-ha ! '  says  he.  *  Too  much  fog  for 
you,  eh  ? ' 

"  '  Too  much  fog  an'  dark,  indeed.  I  can't 
see  half  a  schooner-length.' 

"  '  1^0  need  ! '  says  he. 

"' Skipper  Tom ' 

"  ^  Ah-ha  ! '  he  laughed.  '  Fried  my  sight 
at  the  ice,  did  I  ?  An'  I'm  stone  blind,  is  I  ? 
Ah-ha !  I'll  show  this  crew  how  t'  get  along 
without  eyes !  I'U  show  this  crew  how  t'  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  job ! ' 

"  '  But,  Skipper  Tom ' 

"  '  Ah-ha ! '  says  he.  *  There's  many  little 
voices  in  the  world  that  the  blind  can  hear.' 

" '  Dear  man ! '  says  I.  '  'Tis  as  dark  as  the 
mouth  o'  The  Pit ! ' 

" '  I  couldn't  get  along  so  well,'  says  he,  *  if 
I  had  all  the  eyes  aboard.  'Tis  ears  a  man 
needs  in  a  tight  place  Like  this.  Eyes  isn't  no 
good  of  a  foggy  night.' 

"But  Tom  Tulk  couldn't  find  Bread-an'- 
Butter.  In  went  the  Seventh  Son — an'  out 
again.  An'  in  once  more  an'  out  again,  makin' 
southward  a  little,  every  leg:  an'  each  time 
Tom  Tulk  shook  his  head  an'  howled  '  Hard-a- 


THE  BEST  OF  THE  JOB        197 

lee ! '  an'  the  schooner  come  about  an'  put  t' 
sea  in  haste. 

"  *  I  can't  be  lost ! '  says  Tom.  *  She's  some- 
wheres  hereabouts.  She've  got  t'  be!  I'll 
hear  her  spittin'  soon.' 

"  Out  an'  in :  in  an'  out — an'  in  so  close,  this 
time,  that  I  cotched  a  flash  o'  white  in  the 
dark. 

" '  God's  sake  ! '  says  I.    '  IN'ot  so  close ! ' 

"  ^  I  knows  my  way,'  says  he. 

"  Half  a  gale,  now ;  an'  the  sea  too  much  for 
a  craft  with  decks  awash.  My  heart  fell  fair 
t'  my  belly  with  every  pitch  o'  the  old  ship. 

"  Then : 

"^  Hear  that! 'yells  Tom. 

"  '  Hear  what  ? — God's  mercy,  we're  lost ! ' 

"  *  Ah-ha  ! '  says  he  ;  *  there  she  is ! ' 

"Breakers,  sure  enough!  I  hearkened — a 
roar  o'  water :  a  hollow  boom-boom,  a  slap  an' 
a  swish. 

"*  That's  or  Hole-in-the-Wall,'  says  Tom, 
with  a  bit  of  a  chuckle.  ^That's  ol'  Hole-in- 
the-Wall  coughin'  her  life  out.  I  knowed  she'd 
have  a  cold  in  a  southerly  sea.  Hear  that, 
Tumm?    Ah-ha!' 

"  We  run  aft. 


198      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  '  Bearin's  enough  for  the  blind,'  says  Tom, 
when  he  got  the  wheel  in  his  hands.  *  Har- 
bour's forty  fathom  t'  the  north.  A  deep  chan- 
nel— an'  a  broad  way.  Ah-ha! — nothin'  like 
ears  of  a  foggy  night.  An'  now  I'll  take 
her  in.' 

"  'Twas  plain  as  a  voice :  the  sea  in  that  deep 
cave  they  calls  Hole-in-the-Wall — a  boom-boom, 
like  the  beat  of  a  drum,  with  a  cough  t'  follow. 
It  could  never  be  mistaken.  Boom-boom  ! — an' 
a  slap  an'  a  cough  an'  a  hiss.  The  same  with 
every  sea :  Boom-boom  !~an'  a  slap  an'  a  cough 
an'  a  hiss.  'Twas  for  this  that  Tom  Tulk  had 
hearkened  so  long — the  voice  o'  Hole-in-the 
Wall,  near  by  the  narrows  t'  Bread-an'-Butter 
Harbour :  Boom-boom  !— an'  a  slap  an'  a  cough 
an'  a  hiss." 


XXX 

A  WHITE  BOSE 

"  X^  LIND  TOM  put  the  schooner  at  the 
1""^  shore.  '  Keep  your  courage,  lads ! ' 
"^"^^  sings  he.  "Twill  soon  be  over.  I 
can  see  that  shore  like  a  gull  in  the  sunlight. 
An'  stand  by  t'  let  go  the  anchor  an'  take 
in  sail,  l^o  yelpin',  lads,'  says  he,  'for  I  got 
trouble  enough  with  my  ears  in  this  here 
howl  o'  wind.'  Gale  down,  then,  all  of  a 
sudden :  a  squall  an'  a  flood  o'  cold  rain — an' 
the  Seventh  Son  on  a  run  for  the  rocks  like 
a  scared  rabbit.  *  Ah-ha,  there  she  is ! '  says 
Tom.  *  We're  goin'  in ! '  There  she  was,  sure 
enough :  Boom-boom ! — an'  a  slap  an'  a  cough 
an'  a  hiss.  *  Snug  water  inside,'  says  Tom.  *  I 
can  see  like  a  hawk — like  a  hawk ! '  An'  'twas 
pitch  dark :  black  as  a  wolf's  throat — an'  a  hell- 
ish confusion  o'  wind  an'  sea,  an'  the  fear  o' 
death  before  an'  behind.  Sight  o'  nothin'  at 
all :  jus'  noise — an'  no  eyes  needed  t'  tell  what 
lay  ahead  :  a  mess  o'  rock  an'  broken  water  be- 
low big  cliffs. 

199 


200     THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

"  *  Like  a  hawk ! '  yells  Tom.  '  I  can  see  like 
a  hawk ! ' 

"  All  over  in  a  flash,  now,  thinks  we : 
breakers  under  the  bows  ;  an'  nothin'  t'  do  but 
hang  on  an'  make  the  best  of  it  when  she  struck. 
It  seemed  t'  me,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  I  could 
put  out  my  hand  an'  touch  a  cliff ;  there  was 
the  feel  o'  rock  near  by — an'  ecod,  I  fair  wished 
the  Seventh  Son  would  strike,  an'  splinter  up, 
an'  be  done  with  the  job,  for  I  couldn't  stand  it 
no  longer  !  Then  the  cook's  boy  yelped.  An' 
I'm  not  knowin'  what  might  have  happened  on 
the  heels  o'  that  child's  scream — I  leaped,  me- 
self,  I  knows,  an'  shivered,  an'  heard  a  howl  in 
the  dark  beside  me — I'm  not  knowin'  what 
might  have  happened  had  not  the  wind  failed  all 
at  once,  an'  the  schooner  lost  way,  with  her 
canvas  flappin',  an'  had  not  the  sea  gone  still, 
an'  the  noise  o'  wind  an'  breakers  somehow  gone 
out  o'  the  world. 

" '  Bread-an'-Butter,'  says  Skipper  Tom  t'  the 
first  hand.  '  Easy  water  ahead.  Get  the  sail 
off  her  an'  hang  her  down  for  fine  weather.' 

"Well,  well,  Blind  Tom  Tulk  was  free t'  say 
that  it  wasn't  so  bad  for  a  ol'  feller  like  he,  but 


A  WHITE  ROSE  201 

nothin'  much  t'  boast  of :  for,  says  he,  over  a 
cup  o'  tea,  that  night,  a  man  with  no  eyes  in  his 
head  would  do  very  well  with  his  ears,  if  he 
had  a  mind  t'  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job.  An' 
or  Hole-in-the-Wall  was  friend  o'  his.  A 
teacher,  for  sure :  for  Hole-in-the-Wall  had 
fetched  Tom  Tulk  t'  harbour  out  of  a  mist  in 
the  days  of  his  first  blind  season  ;  an'  thereafter 
he  had  learned  t'  do  very  well  with  his  ears — 
by  means  of  all  the  little  voices  in  the  world, 
says  he,  which  speak  to  a  man  without  eyes. 
An'  so  he  told  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter,  when  he 
went  ashore  at  Kickity  Tickle,  with  the  Seventh 
Son  at  anchor  in  Squid  Cove,  loaded  deep  of  a 
failed  season.  '  An'  now,  Peter,'  says  he,  '  I'm 
past  my  labour,  an'  I'll  take  my  rest,  which  I've 
earned  in  a  long  life,  well  spent.  Short  allow- 
ance o'  sight  these  last  few  years,'  says  he  ; '  but 
I  done  well  enough,  somehow  or  other,  with 
what  I  had,  by  makin'  the  best  of  a  bad  job.' 

" '  You  done  well,  Tom ! '  says  Pinch-a- 
Penny  Peter. 

" '  Oh,  nothin'  much,'  says  Tom.  '  There's 
many  little  voices  in  the  world  t'  speak  t'  them 
that  are  blind.' 

"  'Twas  very  well  with  Tom  Tulk,  after  that : 


202      THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

a  staff  at  last — an'  many  a  gossipy  dawdle  on 
the  roads — an'  time  for  yarns  an'  children — an' 
a  seat  in  the  sun  of  a  fine  afternoon — an'  many 
a  walk  t'  the  graveyard  where  the  little  Giant- 
Killer  lay.  Tom  Tulk  had  lived  a  tale  with  a 
moral,  as  every  good  man  should  do.  I  tells  it 
to  you.  You'll  tell  it  elsewhere.  'Twill  go  on 
an'  on.  For  generations  t'  come  they'll  tell  it 
in  the  forecastles  o'  Labrador  craft  in  harbour. 
A  tale  with  a  moral — as  every  good  man  should 
live  !  The  tale  o'  Blind  Tom  Tulk,  ecod !— the 
blind  skipper  who  fetched  his  load  home  of  a 
failed  season.  '  I'm  past  my  labour,'  says  Tom 
Tulk,  when  he  used  t'  sit  in  the  sun,  *  an'  I'm 
enjoyin'  the  fruits  o'  toil.  I  loved  my  life  pretty 
near  all  my  days :  never  better  than  after  I  had 
fried  my  sight  at  the  ice,  an'  they  was  more  in- 
terest in  gettin'  along.  I  got  one  thing  more  t' 
look  forward  to,'  says  he,  *  an'  I  'low  I'll  like 
that,  too.  In  my  old  age,  sittin'  here  in  the  sun, 
with  not  much  else  t'  think  of,  an'  life  gone  past, 
I've  growed  wonderful  curious  about — That ! ' 
"  You  know  what  he  meant." 
And  the  tale  of  Tom  Tulk  was  told. 

^Nobody  said  a  word.    There  was  silence— 


A  WHITE  ROSE  203 

such  as  sometimes  falls  upon  men  profoundly 
affected  by  the  beauty  of  some  achievement 
beyond  their  own  power.  This  is  not  envy : 
it  is  humility.  Presently  old  Tumm  got  up 
and  went  forward.  It  was  then  that  the 
cook — a  man  of  poor  spirit — first  called  the 
tale  a  "  pack  o'  lies."  But  the  tale  was  true. 
And  if  you  doubt  it,  as  indeed  you  may,  it  is, 
as  Tumm  subsequently  declared,  because  it 
shames  you.  The  denial  of  splendid  deeds  cre- 
ates suspicion.  There  is  no  virtue  in  cynicism : 
there  is  much  profit  in  faith — in  the  will  to 
accept  for  truth  the  narrative  of  some  perform- 
ance of  power  and  high  loveliness  and  thereby 
to  be  moved  to  a  measure  of  emulation.  One 
loses  no  voltage  of  truth  :  one  gains  a  moving 
vision — the  power  unmeasurable  in  beneficence. 
By  and  by  Tumm  returned.  He  was  grinning. 
Never  before  had  I  seen  the  old  fellow  so 
broadly  delighted.  He  was  in  a  rapture.  And 
he  had  something  under  his  coat,  carried  with 
tenderness :  which,  when  the  time  was  ripe, 
and  he  had  looked  us  each  in  the  eye,  he  dis- 
closed in  a  fashion  the  most  dramatic.  It  was 
the  "  liT  rose-bush."  Tumm  stood  off  and  re- 
garded it  with  his  head  cocked  in  infinite  pride 


204     THE  BEST  OF  A  BAD  JOB 

and  delight.  It  was  the  rose-bush,  sure  enough ! 
— old  Tumm's  cherished  rose-bush :  that  '*  li'l' 
rose-bush  "  which  Tumni  had  nourished  with 
solicitude  and  in  faith,  the  "  liT  rose-bush  "  of 
some  significance  of  the  spirit,  which  had  flour- 
ished into  a  scrawny,  scraggly  health,  in  spite 
of  its  inimical  surroundings,  and  to  which 
Tumm  was  used  to  turning  for  consolation 
when  he  was  downcast  by  the  puzzles  and  per- 
versities of  life. 

"  Boys,"  he  announced,  "  my  li'l'  bush  has 
got  a  flower  !  " 

It  was  a  little  white  rose. 


THE  END 


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CLARA  E.  LAUGHLIN 

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PROF.  EDWARD  A.   STEINER       ,    ^»'*"' •^"^?,' 

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TRAVEL— SOCIOLOGY 

EDGAR  ALLEN  FORBES 

The  Land  of  the  White  Helmet 

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interest  to  record,  but  which  at  the  same  time  may  be  safely 
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EDWARD  A.   STEINER 

Against  the  Current  f.7i\'&'S?Si  i.^.n. 

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Dr.  Steiner  has  portrayed  some  of  the  pictures  whicb 
stand  out  most  vividly  from  the  background  of  his  early 
boyhood  and  which  influenced  him  in  his  subsequent  de- 
velopment. His  meeting  with  the  returned  soldier  who  saw 
Lincoln  in  far  off  America — his  meeting  with  Tolstoi,  etc.,— 
are  vividly  ^portrayed  and  their  consequences  noted. 


IB  3256 


918729 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


